


if not for our forbidden dreams

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Build, Smitten!Leamas, professor/ student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2018-12-04 04:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11547540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: Leamas could feel that sharp tongue curl in his mouth and draw a moan from the base of his throat. This is wrong, he thought, and pushed his student hard against the desk by his hips. This is so, so wrong, he thought as he pulled Fiedler’s tie free from his collar, latching his lips onto that beautifully pale neck and teasing darling sounds from those kiss-bruised lips. This is –“Professor,”  Fiedler whispered into his ear.So, so right.Leamas was an economics professor. Fiedler was his student. This could only end well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Uni AU literally no one asked for.

**If not for our forbidden dreams**

The lecture hall was brimming with students. Leamas watched from behind the podium, his two palms pressed flat against the timber. He cleared his throat.

“To sum up, we had the 1970s oil crises which gave us worldwide inflation and eventuated in a recession. By the end of the decade, the German Democratic Republic was experiencing serious external debt, contracting further in the 80’s despite the Five Year plan. By 1990, the transition to an open-market economy essentially saved the nation and compromised the seemingly impenetrable Communist State. Questions?”

The hall was quiet. Leamas leant back on his hunches, about to conclude when a soft noise came to his ears. He glanced towards the front, off-centre.

His dark locks framed his face almost delicately, his long legs crossed over one-another. He had terribly intelligent eyes, lips were twisted downwards, unimpressed. One slender hand was pressed against a thick notebook, fingers absentmindedly folding a pen between them. He sat alone.

Leamas raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Tension seemed to flood the theatre. The student glanced up, realising Leamas was addressing him. “If you’d like to make a comment, now’s the time,” he smiled daringly.

The young man took a moment, tilting his head. He let out a soft sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t agree with you Professor.”

His voice was silky, harmonic. Leamas _tssked._ He was not used to students so openly challenging him. “You can’t disagree with facts.”

The student shook his head. “They aren’t facts, Professor. Not all of them. They are interpretations and interpretations are constructs of subjectivity, bias, perspective. Ergo, not facts.” He uncrossed his legs, and Leamas could have laughed. He would not be kind.

“Oh? And what about my explanation seems _subjective_ to you?”

The student licked his lips and Leamas couldn’t help glancing at the movement. “You overlooked the overall economic growth and development of industrialisation – the complete and inherently continuous utilisation of all available resources resultant from operating so beyond the production possibility frontier.”

Leamas shook his head. “Yes – and these _short-term_ benefits were balanced by the inefficient allocation of goods and services due to inefficient structuring of the economy, the fluctuating prices due to the unpredictability of goods availability-”

“Yes, but-” _Oh._ Leamas was not used to being interrupted, “that’s not taking into account the stable price elasticity the influence of collectivisation where industrial sector output increased dramatically and the GDP-”

“GDP is hardly the most effective means of measuring the condition of an economy-”

“And yet it correlated with rapid increases in investment and standards of living-”

“Which were short-lived as the GDR couldn’t _keep up_ with Western democratic countries with open economy policies-”

“Because the GDR valued social fulfillment above the individual and even employed the NES-”

“Which resulted in dramatically rescinded figures-”

“But decentralised the authority through fiscal and monetary instruments and rationalised prices by increasing flexibility. This was _housed_ by the Basic Treaty with West Germany. I hardly think it’s appropriate to exemplify the GDR to prove-”

The lecture hall seemed to follow their conversation like a tennis much. Leamas interrupted with the huff of sudden a laugh, and the young man paused midsentence. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. “Oh, you hardly think, is that right?”

There was no reply. A red tinge coloured the boy’s cheeks. It was oddly endearing. “This isn’t a politics 101, kid. It’s economic Intelligentsia.” The student seemed to stare right through him, his eyes focused with unparalleled intensity.

He shifted, as if suddenly conscious of all the students watching him. Leamas almost felt guilty. “I wasn’t suggesting it was, but it’s impossible to separate the political and economic entities of the GDR so inherently when the 70’s economic conditions were a product of mature socialism.”

It was then Leamas realised this debate would prove incredibly futile, and that he should have dismissed the students a good fifteen minutes ago. “Alright.” He sighed almost theatrically, “I see you’re not to be convinced and that you’ve taken nothing from this lecture.” There were a few chuckles. One of the boy’s hands was curled tightly around his pen and Leamas could see the whiteness of his knuckles from where he stood. “I’m going to get in trouble if I keep you lot longer, so shoo. I’m afraid we’ll have to finish this some other time.” It was as good of a dismissal as any. His lips upturned at the corner in a painfully artificial pretence.

The other students began to filter out in groups, chatting excitedly amongst one another, eyes filtering between Leamas and the boy still in his chair. He looked at Leamas like a particularly fascinating puzzle to be solved, the certainty in his gaze making him feel almost uncertain.

Leamas looked away and began to pack his briefcase. When he glanced up, the boy was gone.

*

“I had the most fascinating lecture today,” Leamas cradled the coffee between two palms, the leather creaking beneath his broad figure as he sat in the armchair opposite Smiley.

“Oh?” His friend closed his novel and glanced at him. The teacher’s lounge was abandoned this time of the evening, so Leamas was comfortable enough to snort into his drink. “You gave that lesson on historical economics today didn’t you? You always do that one quite well.”

He nodded. “I did – right until the end. Who knew fourth years were so argumentative?”

Smiley raised an eyebrow. “Did you _argue with a student_?”

Leamas pulled a long drag from his coffee. “Not an argument, per se George but-” he paused, unsure of how to continue.

Smiley looked at him a moment longer before releasing a knowing _ah._ He lounged back into the armchair. A look of amusement suddenly came into his gaze.

Leamas knew that look “What? What do you know Smiley?”

“The student – didn’t happen to be pale, thin, terribly intelligent eyes? Called you Professor as he picked holes in your lecture?”

“You know ‘im?” His coffee was suddenly forgotten. Smiley almost grinned.

“Jens Fiedler. He’s not a fourth year, he’s just taking some advanced classes.”

“Advanced – what is he, third?”

“Second.”

“Huh.” He leaned back. Smiley nodded almost to himself.

“He’s a law student. Brilliant. Ran rings around his peers so Control agreed to let him take advanced classes.”

“We do that?”

Smiley shook his head slowly. “Not usually. But he’s finished all the extra credits you can imagine. Presented a very… compelling case. Control was inclined to let him have his way.”

“Jens Fiedler, huh?” The name felt strange on his tongue. It rolled off especially smoothly.

“Talking about Fiedler?” The clacking of Oxfords against the timber was accompanied by Haydon’s smooth voice. He appeared a moment later.

Smiley nodded at him and Leamas could almost see the tension rolling off him in waves. He admired his friend’s restraint. He wouldn’t have been able to do the same.

“Bill,” he tilted his chin to look at the figure standing by his chair, “know him?”

Haydon smiled a secret smile, before moving past them and heading towards the sink, filling up the kettle. Leamas watched his back as he fixed himself a cup of tea.

“Of course. I’ve lectured him on four years’ worth of Constitutional Law, and he’s only been here two.” There was amusement in his voice, as if he was recollecting a fond memory. Leamas couldn’t see his face from here. “He been giving you trouble too, Alec?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Clever little thing, isn’t he? Quite pretty. Certainly not what you’d expect.”

 _Quite pretty._ Leamas did not comment. In front of him, Smiley let out a hum of agreement. It felt artificial. “Indeed.”

The silence stretched comfortably until Haydon finished making his tea, carefully balancing it as he moved back towards the door. “Catch you lads later.” Their salutation was in harmony, and Leamas could not quell the uncertain feeling which seemed to permeate his being.

“Don’t worry about it Alec,” Smiley seemed to be reading his thoughts. He turned back to his friend. “You know how Bill is fascinated with,” he poised two quotation marks in the air, “Clever little things.”

“Of course.” His only reply.

They spoke little after, Jens Fiedler permeating Leamas’ every thought.

*

The next lecture went fairly smoothly. Leamas wrapped up the fall of the East Communist Bloc to an eager lecture hall full of students. Fiedler sat in the same seat as yesterday, slim arms crossed over his chest. He was paying rapt attention to Leamas, but he hadn’t picked up his pen the entire lecture. It was as good of a challenge as any.

And yet, the end of the lecture came and he hadn’t spoken once. Leant back in his chair, his eyes seemed to bare into Leamas’ soul, and the professor berated himself for becoming distracted.

“Alright, if anyone’s got any questions, you know where to look. Off you go.”

The students began to filter out and Leamas packed his files neatly into his briefcase, focused until the last clatter of footsteps was heard cluttering the hallway just beyond the door.

“Professor,” he looked up sharply. Fiedler stood about a metre from him, messenger back slung over one shoulder. It pulled on the blazer hugging his slim figure tightly. Leamas could faintly see the outline of a sharp collarbone through his white shirt. “Fascinating lecture.” He smiled, and it was silky, practiced. Leamas couldn’t tell whether he was being genuine.

He pulled his briefcase tight in one hand. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to pick anymore holes today.”

Fiedler tilted his head back and laughed. Shadows bounced off the hollow of his neck and Leamas watched the bob of his Adam’s apple. His laugh was soft, inviting. “You mustn’t mistake my curiosity for distaste, Professor. It was a marvellous lecture.”

“Not enough facts for you, though?”

The boy’s smile widened. He took a moment before sticking his hand out. “Jens Fiedler, Sir.”

Leamas leaned forward and shook his hand. It felt terribly delicate in Leamas’ strong grip, the fine bones and thin fingers fragile, almost brittle. Fiedler had a firm hold, the pad of his thumb brushing gently over the skin of Leamas’ hand.

He briefly wondered if it was deliberate. Surely not. Fiedler held his hand a moment longer – was it too long? - before letting go, and Leamas felt oddly bereft at the loss of contact. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

He shifted backwards, suddenly keen to create some distance between him and the boy. “I’m glad you found the lecture informative.” He was suddenly desperate to fill the silence, Fiedler seeming more than comfortable to stare right through him – his eyes piercing, intense. Leamas needed to look away.

“Oh Professor,” was there something _teasing_ in his tone? Leamas was reading too much into it. “It was certainly more than just informative.” He wasn’t sure how to reply. Fiedler adjusted the bag on his shoulder and smiled again. “I’ll catch you later Sir. Professor Smiley’s giving a talk on the,” he lowered his voice almost playfully, “ _perils of socialism._ It ought to be fascinating.” His smile widened and he winked – was that a wink? That was a wink. But surely not?

In a moment, he was gone, and Leamas felt more uncertain than ever.

*

The next day, the next lecture was much the same.

Yesterday’s interaction weighed heavily on his mind, and he convinced himself he was reading too much into it. But speaking on the effects of external debt, he couldn’t help but glance at that seat off-centre. The first time, Fiedler had that same sharp look on his eyes. The second time, he had a smile. In a lecture hall spilling with over a hundred students, Fiedler smiled and Leamas felt like he was the only one who could see.

“Inherently, as we know the most prevalent measures for External Stability are – naturally – the CAD and the CAF. Now, we also-”

Fiedler had leaned forward on the desk. One arm was flat against the wood while the other held his chin up. His fingers curled lightly, almost unconsciously. His lips were slightly parted, and Leamas could see a sliver of ashen skin where his top two buttons were undone. Hazel locks framed his sharp cheekbones and his eyes seemed darker than ever.

 _Damn it, Alec –_ he cleared his throat and quickly looked away. “We also know that these make up the balance of goods and services, this is elementary. What we need to realise when approaching this complex-”

He avoided looking at Fiedler for the remainder of the lecture.

*

God, Leamas loved Friday nights.

He left a tower of essays marked at his desk, and made his way to Smiley’s office past 8 for their usual get-together. A bottle of fifteen-year old scotch came with him, his fingers curled lightly around the broad neck.

The campus was almost empty, peak hour dissolving the hurried students by the evening. He took his time, enjoying the stroll, letting the waft of cool air through cracked windows ease the tension from his shoulders.

Oh, it had been a long week.  He was severely looking forward to relaxing, to enjoying the burn of alcohol down his throat. He might even indulge in one of Smiley’s Cuban cigars. Perhaps.

He came face to face with the door to Smiley’s office and didn’t bother knocking, knowing his old friend would be expecting him.

“Smiley, I’ve got-”

He froze, halfway through the doorway. Smiley was at his desk alright, arms crossed over his chest as he listened with rapt attention to figure speaking in the chair opposite him. Leamas could barely contained his exasperated sigh. He’d know those slim shoulders anywhere. He had watched Fiedler walk away often enough.

Smiley and the boy turned to him, Fiedler’s hands paused mid-air in some absurd animate motion. His smile grew when he caught sight of his professor.

“Alec-” Smiley glanced at the clock by the door, “So sorry, I hadn’t realised it was so late.”

He laughed sheepishly. Fiedler glanced at the bottle in Leamas’ hand and abruptly stood.

He turned back to Smiley, twisting his body in a smooth motion. “I think that’s my cue Professor.” He grabbed his messenger back from beside the chair. Smiley stood too, and held out his hand. Their handshake seemed to end quite quickly. _So that’s not how he usually shakes hands then._

“I’ll read through it tomorrow morning with a clear head-” Smiley held up a finely bound report. It could have been fifty pages. “And get back to you after the next lecture.”

Fiedler nodded, “Thanks Professor, I appreciate it.”

Smiley put the report back on his desk. “Of course. Well done Jens – exceptional work.”

The boy seemed to blush ever so slightly under the praise. It might have been a trick of the light. He smiled at Smiley and turned to face Leamas, nodding at him happily.

“Sir,” Fiedler stepped in quite close as he past, and Leamas could feel his body heat. He wondered if his skin was so warm. _Stop it, Alec._ The boy was a little less than a head short than him, so when he tilted his chin Leamas could see all the delicate lines of his face. Fiedler looked at him from beneath his lashes, and for a forgotten moment, Leamas could not look away.

He cleared his throat and nodded mutely, the fingers curled around the bottle suddenly tingling. He looked away, feeling the ruffle of fabric brush against his arm. and only heard the echo of the door closing. His mouth was suddenly dry. He blinked, trying to focus as Smiley collected two tumblers from his old cabinet.

“Something wrong?” Smiley raised an immaculate eyebrow when he noticed Leamas was still standing stoic in the middle of the room.

Leamas glanced at the scotch in his hand, suddenly so thankful he brought it.

“No.” He shook his head, as if to banish the terrible thoughts from his brain. “Nothing at all.”

*

When Leamas lay in his bed that night, and saw that sly smile flashing behind his eyelids, he knew he was in trouble.

And then he saw the smooth lines of a slender neck leading down to an impossibly pale collarbone, and further down a flat plane of a chest, right to the protruding hipbones that he knew would fit so comfortably between his fingers. He heard that silky voice laughing in his ear, felt the warm breath against his skin.

And then, he knew he was well and truly fu-

*

Over the next week, Leamas learned to ignore Fiedler.

Not _ignore_ ignore, per se – but he learned to look away, to divert his gaze from the curl of those long fingers beneath that sharp jaw, the parting of those delicate red lips, the lovely curve of those dark lashes –

 

It was difficult, at the beginning, but ignoring the outline of that sharp collarbone against the thin shirt did wonders for his concentration. He knew he so desperately needed to create distance between him and the boy, to suffocate the terrible desire bubbling beneath his skin.

It was a shame it did not last.

*

Leamas’ hand was beginning to cramp, the stack of reports at the corner of his desk looking as large as ever. He resisted the urge to sigh, the desire to leave the macro-economic analysis undone on his desk almost overwhelming.

 _Just do a couple more._ Smiley’s voice. Always Smileys goddamn reasonable voice.

He drew in a deep breath, and adjusted his grip on the pen, prepared to read the same sentence for the third time. He cleared his throat – at this point he’d have to read the bloody thing aloud to remember any of it.

“The external condition of the-”  

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Seriously,_ he sighed and immediately dropped his pen, unregretful as it bounced off the essay. As if it was as glad as he was to be suddenly interrupted.

“Come in,”

He glanced up from the paperwork, watching as the door gently creaked open. He was hoping it was Smiley – there was a bottle of Cardhu in his drawer and he desperately needed a reason to uncork it. With the absolute wreck that had been the past week, his thoughts invaded with the brilliant memory of Fiedler’s intense eyes and the breathless way he said _professor._ A drink was definitely in order.

He glanced up and –

Speak of the devil and he doth appear.

“Fiedler.”

The boy was half-in, half-out of the room. He had one long leg peaking from behind the wooden door, bent at the knee. His trousers pulled at the ankle and Leamas could see a white sock peaking above polished Oxfords which pressed lightly into his carpet. His one visible hand was curled around the edge of the door, hair tousled over his features as he tilted his head, shadowing a bright smile.

“Professor,” he spoke cheerily. Leamas flattened his palm against the oak desk, the pen regripped between his fingers. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

_No. No. You may absolutely not._

“Of course.”

Fiedler’s smile seemed to widen and he drew the door open completely, leaving Leamas to watch how his blazer tightly hugged his impossibly narrow waist.

_Get out of my office._

“Come in.”

The resounding thud of the closing door ushered away the last visages of hope. Fiedler walked unhurriedly towards him, the light casting a curious myriad of fractured shadows around his face, the darkness shifting down the side of a sharp jaw, down the lines of a slender neck.

Leamas glanced down at the essay again, determined to shield his gaze from the lovely features and inviting smile. He tried rereading the sentence a fourth time.

He heard Fiedler pull up the chair opposite and sit down, the wood barely creaking with his gentle movements. He waited a moment until he was sure the boy wasn’t moving before glancing up.

“Yes?” He tried to evoke the most uninviting tone he was capable off, all steely edges and distaste. “Did you need something?” He made sure to raise an eyebrow – condescending -  only half focused.

Fiedler was not deterred. “Actually Professor, I was hoping to continue our discussion from the other day.” He leaned in, and both his hands found the flat surface of the oak desk. There was less than a metre of clutter separating them.

“Our discussion?” Leamas mouth was dry. Fiedler was looking at him with such an earnest, open expression his breath vacillated in his lungs.

The boy nodded, his dark locks curling around sharp cheekbones. “Yes, about interpretation and fact – the downfall of the GDR economy. You remember, surely?”

_Like I could forget._

“When was this?”

Fiedler licked his lower lip, and Leamas was drawn to the darting of his pink tongue. “Last Tuesday, Professor – you gave an introduction on historical economics of the-”

Leamas waved his hand carelessly, dropping his pen and leaning back. “Yes, yes – we sorted that one out, didn’t we?” Crossing his arms over his chest, he _tssked_. As if he were speaking to a child.

For a split second – Leamas could almost see something _dim_ in that clever gaze, before the cheer overwhelmed it. Fiedler’s smile did not falter. Leamas filed the moment away at the back of his mind. “You didn’t agree when I argued that the ‘70s were-”

“A product of political ideology, yes I remember.” _Biting, Alec._ “You seemed to think it was impossible to separate the economics and the politics.” Fiedler nodded, he was about to say something but Leamas didn’t let him, “I thought you were in the wrong class.”

“I-” that seemed to throw him off. _Good._ “Wrong class, Professor?” The uncertainty was unmistakable.

“Yes,” Leamas replied, sounding decidedly unimpressed. “You felt the need to undermine economics as a science by suggesting it could not invariably exist without political institutionalisation.”

Fiedler blushed. If Leamas was a lesser man, he would not have resisted the urge to imprison the student’s hands within his own and draw Fiedler to him. The red tinge colouring his cheeks was all too delightful.

“That wasn’t what I was suggesting-”

_Obviously it wasn’t._

“Obviously it was.” He leaned back further, and watched Fiedler’s slender fingers curl into his palm unconsciously. He quashed the pang which struck him between the ribs. “You wouldn’t have alluded to their inherent interconnectedness otherwise. You’ll have to forgive me for-”

“I don’t disrespect it,” it was sudden. Fiedler looked worried, and Leamas wondered if he had gone too far. “The economics Professor,” _Ah, the justification,_ “surely you don’t believe I-” he paused, and the answering silence seemed to weigh heavily on his shoulders. “But I can’t ignore the effect of mature socialism-” _This kid._

Leamas unfolded his arms from his chest. He couldn’t help it. “You honestly believe the GDR would have been economically sound?”

“If not for foreign intervention, the government-”

“How could they have sustained those levels of foreign trade? They specialised but it was inefficient-”

“Yes but if they were given the appropriate time to-”

And so it went. Leamas lost himself in the debate, bouncing ideas and thoughts and contradictions off such an inherently brilliant mind. Where Leamas pushed, Fiedler pulled and where Fiedler pulled, Leamas pushed. He could see the unyielding wit Smiley gushed about, the cynical control of philosophy, the careful manipulation of every word. Leamas could not avert his gaze from those animated hands, the way the boy would lean in unconsciously, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his Saxonian twang giving way to a Canadian tilt. He was a fascinating pastiche of pragmaticism with a tone of intense hope. He admired the early economic stability of the East Communist Bloc but he was not blind to its flaws. He did not chase Leamas’ logic, lost, he kept up with him – challenged him – confronted him.

He was beautiful.

It struck him, as Fiedler ran a thin hand through his tousled hair, lips parting some clever bit of logic or unfashionably quoting Stalin- the boy was beautiful. Not just physically – physically the lithe body hidden beneath tight-fitting blazers, the bright eyes, the impossibly long legs, he was attractive of course – Leamas was not blind. He hadn’t missed the look Haydon saved especially for the boy – the look he saved for all the pretty things like Ann. Fiedler’s delicate features made him invariably stunning, sharp. But his mind – Leamas was drawn to his mind like a bee to honey. He could debate him for hours, pick up the inconsistencies – if there ever were – in his arguments. He was painfully logical – exceptionally self-aware of his place and position. His disposition was a fascinating painting of control and destructive sarcasm.

“Come on Fiedler – surely you can’t be serious!”

His student laughed, his head tilted back. It was a harmonic sound, light, easy, dangerously pleasant to Leamas’ ears. He wanted to capture the melody in a glass jar and listen to it every night.

“Of course I am, Professor. Just imagine,” there was a renewed intensity in his eyes. He leaned in even further, crossing his arms over the timber. If Leamas was a little closer, he could have kissed him. “Imagine if Lenin hadn’t died when he did – imagine if Trotsky wasn’t assassinated. If Stalin wasn’t so impelled by the need to devour the West. The socialist utopia that could have been.”

Leamas shook his head, “That’s a dangerous way of thinking, Fiedler.” The younger man lifted his chin almost defiantly. “You can’t change history.” Fiedler huffed, and Leamas couldn’t help leaning in a little bit too.

“We can learn from it.” Leamas was caught by his smile. “Ignorance is a danger, Professor. It’s important to assess all the potentialities and possibilities of a situation so we know what is to be done when it happens again.”

There was a beat of silence. “You think history is condemned to repeating itself?”

The question was heavy, intrusive. It disrupted the comfortable atmosphere and Leamas regretted asking as soon as he had spoken.

Fiedler looked away for a moment, his smile dimming. For some reason, it made Leamas upset.

“I certainly hope not.”

Leamas needed to look anywhere but those suddenly saddened features, his eyes catching on the clock by the door.

“It’s late,” time seemed to have been sucked into some vacuum – both passing and suspended. They had been talking for hours.

Fiedler turned and Leamas caught the surprise in his gaze. It was nearing 8. They both should’ve been home long ago.

“So it is.” The cheery tone was back, like Fiedler didn’t see anything wrong with the situation. Leamas could feel the tension returning to stiffen his shoulders. How had he lost himself? He had spent the past week trying desperately to avoid Fiedler – avoid his silky voice and lovely lips and quick wit. And now this.

He stood quickly, and Fiedler had no choice but to follow in suit. Leamas kept a safe distance as he walked the boy to the door. It didn’t feel necessary, but he almost wanted to make sure he left. Closing the door behind his retreating back would be very satisfying, he imagined.

Fiedler turned to face him as they reached the door, and Leamas had to stop himself before bumping into him.

He was standing close, too close, but it would look awkward to take a step back. Leamas tried to breathe normally, but when he looked down at the boy from this angle he could see right down his unbuttoned collar – when had he unbuttoned it? – to the pale, endlessly pale, skin which stretched from his collar bone down and down and _down_.

He looked up quickly and pressed one sweaty palm against his trousers. Fiedler smiled at him knowingly, as if daring him to deny it.

“You should leave.” Leamas was proud of the way his voice didn’t shake.

Fiedler blinked up at him, “Of course Professor. Thank you for the conversation.” He waited a beat too long. “I’ll see you soon.”

His shoulder brushed Leamas’ on his way out, and it burned his skin right through his blazer.

Well damn.

*

Leamas could not sleep that night.

This time, it wasn’t the thought of his hands on those hips that kept him up. He didn’t think about how perfectly the boy would feel pressed close to him, how smooth his fingers would feel against Leamas’ jaw. No – tonight he thought about the intensity in those eyes, about all the counterarguments he could make the next time he saw him.

_There will be no next time, Alec._

No. No there shouldn’t be. Of course not. This was terrible, dangerous, because he was falling.

Leamas was falling for his student, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

*

Not that he tried very hard.

When Fiedler came to him the next evening, he didn’t turn him away as he should have. Leamas convinced himself he could enjoy Fiedler’s company on a completely platonic level. He could restrain himself. It wasn’t a terrible thing – Smiley and Haydon seemed to be enjoying the boy’s company well enough, keen for some ‘youthful’ insight.

So he enjoyed his student’s company, as any Professor would. He enjoyed his intellect, his ideas, his thought-provoking tongue.

He enjoyed his conviction, his belief, his sheer brilliance. He enjoyed the warmth of his palm as they shook hands, he enjoyed the sliver of pale skin running down the lines of a slender neck, he enjoyed the way those eyes seemed to brighten when they saw him.

That was it, really: the fact that Fiedler, young and brilliant and beautiful and ambitious, seemed to prefer spending his evenings talking to Leamas. He wasn’t being the socialite, he was prioritising time with a professor. It wasn’t just economics or politics – after a while, it became anything and everything. Fiedler was characterised by the innate curiosity which operated as an end to lawyers and law students alike. He seemed to enjoy spending time with Leamas. It was partly fascinating, partly unnerving.

*

The silence was borderline uncomfortable in the professor’s lounge.

Leamas kept to himself, focusing on his steaming mug of Earl Grey, reading through essays to the shuffle of Mundt’s pen against paper.

The German had his lips pressed in a tight line, a frown moulding his face into something awfully distasteful. Leamas didn’t know he even spoke.

“You alright, Mundt? Looks like you swallowed a pretty bitter pill,” Leamas tone was amiable, friendly. Mundt’s reply was not.

“I may just slit my wrists if I have to read another up-stated politically ignorant essay condemning one party or another.” The bitterness was almost frightening. Leamas turned back to his tea, regretted having asked.

From the corner of his eye, he watched a neat essay doused in red, Mundt’s pen gliding off the paper with a severe intensity. When he was finally done, he flipped the paper closed and carelessly threw it to the top of the pile. On the top right-hand corner, neatly printed, _Fiedler, Jens._

*

“Professor,” Fiedler was perched on the side of his desk, his slender figure angled spectacularly.  Interrupting his endless marking. Again.

“Mmm?” He hummed absent-mindedly.

“Professor, would you like to know a fun fact?”

“Not really,”

Fiedler continued, as if Leamas had never spoken. “Back in the Cold War, the C.I.A. made a pornographic film starring an Indo President lookalike to discredit him.”

Leamas sighed, trying to keep the smile from tugging at his lips. “Did I really need to know that?”

“They even designed a full-face mask and everything.”

“Fiedler-”

“Did you know the C.I.A. also spiked-”

“Fiedler-”

“French pastries-”

“Honest to God, Fiedler, if you finish that sentence-”

“With LSD?”

Leamas’ pen clattered heavily onto the desk, his fingers threaded through his hair, a frustrated sigh slipping from his tongue. “On what universe is that a fun fact?”

Fiedler looked contemplative for a moment. His teeth sunk into his lower lip, and Leamas watched from the corner of his eye as the soft flesh reddened. He lifted his head and faced his student fully.

A beat of silence followed. “You’re right Professor,” there was something desperately serious about his tone.

“What?” Leamas could feel his brows furrow.

“A fun fact is a fact that can be told at any time and does not require relevance to the subject at hand. But it should also make people laugh.” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t laugh, did you Professor?”

Leamas turned his eyes from those sharp cheekbones and darting tongue. He ignored the dryness in his mouth. “No Fiedler. I did not laugh.”

“Hmm.” He stared intently at Leamas, as if he was slowly taking him apart. “I suppose it was more ‘interesting fact’ territory then.”

Leamas sighed dramatically and picked up his pen again, attempting to refocus on essays and essays detailing the impacts of American external stability on the global economy. “Don’t you have a lecture to attend?”

Fiedler huffed, lifting his wrist. A thin leather watch was wrapped tightly around the pale flesh. Leamas briefly wondered if his skin was just as ashen beneath those sleeves. Did he get paler? _Could_ he get paler? That lovely skin seemed almost translucent under the light. Was it as soft as it looked? He yearned to run his fingers along the inside of that delicate wrist, brush his thumb across that fragile vein, feel the thrum of life speed up beneath his touch. He-

“Professor?”

Fiedler’s concerned face came into view. Leamas cleared his throat, ignoring how those gentle features were distorted with genuine unease. He leaned in, twisting his body so his torso faced his Professor completely. His flattened one palm against the desk and pressed his fingers down hard.

Leamas leaned away, shuffling his chair further behind the desk. “Fiedler,” he glanced at the clock by the door. Four-thirty. “You should-”

“Yes Professor?” The concern was replaced with a sly smile. It felt intensely private.

“You should-” _come closer,_ “leave.”

His beautiful student’s laugh rang like a hollow bell. Fiedler slid off the desk slowly, deliberately. His shoes thudded gently against the carpet as he faced Leamas. Fiedler took a step towards him, and for a devastating moment the Professor thought the boy might actually touch him.

He stood abruptly, and tried desperately to avoid looking awkward. “Really Fiedler, I won’t hear the end of it from Professor Smiley if I keep you any longer.”

“Oh Professor,” that laugh again, “you can keep me as long as you like.”

Heat curled above Leamas’ collar. “Fiedler,” he forced annoyance into his tone, trying with futility to hide his blush. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why _ever_ not Professor?” Fiedler winked. Actually winked. There was no mistaking it this time. He was flirting with him. Christ, Fiedler was flirting with him.

Fiedler took a step forward. Leamas felt breathless. The boy must have broken a dozen codes of conduct in that moment.

“Because you’re my student!”

Leamas stepped back and the backs of his knees bumped into the chair. Fiedler lifted those delicate hands and before Leamas could exhale, flattened his palms against the broad chest.

Time stilled. Those eyes devoured him, impelled by an incredible hunger. The _thump-thump thump-thump_ of Leamas’ heart sped beneath that heated touch. _God_ , those fingers were tantalising against his chest – strong and fine and –

Leamas clamped his fingers around Fiedler’s wrists before he could think about it.

Fiedler’s inner wrists were smooth and lovely and cold in Leamas’ hold. He did not spend a second considering it – he drew Fiedler’s right hand higher, until those fingers were curled by his mouth.

His student’s red lips had parted and his pulse was like rapid fire. In that very moment, Leamas needed to taste him.

His tongue was warm against the cold palm. He kissed the thin hand and a glorious shiver crawled from Fiedler’s toes to his shoulders.

“Prof...” Fiedler trailed off, his words melting as they left his tongue. His student’s voice was breathless. _Oh god._

_Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

Fiedler leaned up on his tip toes. His lips must have been an inch from Leamas’.

_Kiss him._

“Fiedl-”

“Jens.” Leamas could taste his breath on his lips. “It’s Jens, Professor.”

_Kiss him._

“Jens,” he repeated, and the name was delicious on his tongue. His beautiful student was pressed up against him and breathless, open for Leamas to twist and mould.   _Jens._

_Kiss him._

Leamas should not have done it. He was a professor, easily pushing his thirties. Jens was his student – his beautiful, brilliant, wanting, _terribly_ _young_ student. Leamas should not have not it. He should not have kissed him.

And yet, there was little he regretted less.

The kiss was – it was quiet, personal. They were not rushed, Jens did not sink his teeth into Leamas’ lip or taste the inside of his mouth with a curious tongue. No, Jens let himself be kissed, his shy smile evoking a frightening lightness in Leamas’ chest. The professor could taste the tension fleeing from that slender figure, taste the relief between those sharp teeth and over the curve of that clever tongue. Chocolate and mint and all things inherently Fiedler.

It seemed to end too quickly.

The kiss left Fiedler breathless, his cheeks endearingly red. Leamas could hardly account for his own complexion. For once, the boy didn’t have a façade of intense sarcasm or a witty response. He seemed to be waiting this time for Leamas to make the next move. To push him against the desk and kiss him senseless, to breathe him in.

Leamas inched forward, Fiedler’s wrists still in his grasp. “Jens-”

_Alec._

He froze.

_What am I doing?_

_Alec._ Smiley’s voice. God, it was always going to be Smiley bringing Leamas back to his senses.

Jens – right there in front of him. A mind so vivid it was dizzying, a smile so quiet it was tantalising. Jens drew him in, tugged him by his heart strings, seducing him with his calculated movements and unending logic. The boy was everything he needed, a breath of fresh air. He could get lost in him so completely.

It hurt terribly, pulling back, watching the gleam fade from those dark eyes.

_Alec._

“Fiedler,” they were back to last names. Jens’ shoulders fell almost imperceptibly. “Get out of my office.”

The boy looked at him, for a long hard moment. Time had not yet restarted. Leamas blinked, and Jens turned his back, scooped down to draw his bag over one shoulder and made for the door.

Leamas said nothing as the boy quietly muttered _Professor,_ the resounding thud of the closing door bringing about a great wave of vertigo.

_What have I done?_

*

“Are you alright Alec?”

Smiley was leant up against the cabinet as Leamas poured the Steinhager into two tumblers.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied absentmindedly.

Smiley snorted. “You haven’t asked for time off in years. Not since you and Em-” Leamas glanced at him sharply, and Smiley sighed. “I’m just concerned about you.”

“Well,” Leamas handed him his glass tumbler as they moved to the table, “You don’t have to be. I’m fine. Don’t I deserve a little time off?” He tried to pass it off as casual, but he knew Smiley would see right through him.

The bags beneath his eyes must have incited a newfound sympathy within his old friend, however, because he let it go. Instead, the man leant back in his chair and sighed.

“Speaking of things we’d rather avoid,” tactful, “have you marked the global economics essays yet?”

Leamas groaned. “Is this really what you came here for? To talk about essays?”

His companion chuckled. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been thinking about-” _don’t you dare, George –_ “an essay Fiedler wrote for Mundt’s class.” _God damn it._

“I’d rather not talk about students, George – I’m trying to relax.” Smiley did not seem to pick up on his warning.

“It’s not Fiedler,” he stressed, “it’s Mundt.”

Leamas drank from his gin and waited.

“Well it is kind of about Fiedler,” he buried his groan in another sip. “I think Mundt is treating him unfairly.”

It was Leamas’ turn to snort. “Mundt treats everyone unfairly.”

Smiley sounded frustrated in his reply, “Alec – when it comes to that boy, I’m saying he’s-” Leamas waited. Smiley pulled the tumbler to his lips and allowed the silence to settle a moment too long. He suddenly shook his head. “You’re right, it’s probably nothing. I must be overacting.”

Perhaps Leamas should have said something. But he desperately wanted to drink the thoughts of the beautiful smile away, so he didn’t.

*

It took Leamas an entire week to strengthen his resolve. He attended his lectures and left right after, cancelled his consolidation times. For seven days, he only felt that gentle touch in his dreams.

This was it. Fiedler would be here soon. He would speak to the boy in his authoritative capacity and end this charade.

He’d spend a lot of time thinking about it. In his apartment, tumbler in one hand, head in the other. He hadn’t seen the boy for days, but the press of those delicate fingers against his chest never quite faded.

Why was Fiedler so intent on seducing him? It couldn’t be grades, no that was impossible – the boy was passing his class with flying colours. If he had to seduce anyone for grades, it would’ve been Mundt. He –

_It doesn’t matter._

He was going to end this, once and for all. It had gone too far, too much was at risk. His career, his standing, his tenure.

He leaned back in his chair as the quiet knock echoed.

“Come in,” he was proud of the way his voice didn’t tremble.

Fiedler opened the door. He didn’t meet his professor’s eyes until he stood directly before him, on the opposite side of the desk.

He looked as spell-binding as he had sitting in that brimming lecture theatre, as he had with his eyes closed and lips parted for Leamas. A terrible part of him itched, weighed by the realisation he would lose all those precious moments – the hours spent laughing in his office, arguing, debating. He would lose access to that precious, beautiful mind.

“Professor.” Fiedler’s smile was small, hopeful. Leamas could feel his breath escaping him, sinking back into his lungs.

“Fiedler.” The word was cold, sharp. The boy did not lose his smile. “Sit.”

The messenger back was laid carefully on the floor beside the chair. Fiedler crossed his legs slowly, and Leamas was careful not to look at the way his trousers pulled along his thighs.

He took a deep breath. “This can’t go on.”

“What can’t?”

“Don’t play coy, Fiedler. You know what I’m talking about.”

The smile slipped from his lips. He didn’t respond.

“Enough of these childish games. I’m not interested. Stop before you get us both in trouble. Is that clear?”

Silence.

He could feel irritation bubbling beneath his skin. “Damn it, Fiedler, _is_ _that_ _clear_?”

Fiedler _tssked._ He folded his arms over his chest, looking decidedly unimpressed. “As I remember it Professor, _you_ kissed me.”

The air was electrified with an innate tension. Those words – spoken aloud – seemed to make everything so much more real. It was jarring, in escape into a frightening reality of possibilities. Leamas almost looked around to make sure no one heard.

“Be quiet, Fiedler-”

“You just told me to stop being coy, Professor.”

Leamas forced his sigh back down his throat.

“This is where it ends. Enough. Whatever game you’re playing.” he flicked one hand dismissively, “It’s over.”

Fiedler’s eyes darkened and his lips thinned into a line. “You think this is a game?”

Leamas laughed. It was awfully bitter. “Isn’t it? Shag a professor before year’s end? Tick something off the bucket list?”

“You don’t believe that.” There was too much conviction in his words.

“Damn it Fiedler, wake up!” He was almost yelling, his palms suddenly slamming into the desk. His student’s eyes widened a fraction. “Don’t you understand what’s at stake here? All we could both lose because – _because of your whims?_ ”’

“My _whims_?” Leamas had never heard the boy sound so offended before.

“Yes your-”

“My _whims?”_

“Stop sounding so bloody offended!” He stood, his chair almost toppling with the force of his movements. He was yelling, and he could not control his temperament. The frustration seeped from his every pore. “I won’t play your silly little game! If you want someone to bend you over so badly go ask Haydon!” Before Leamas could come to terms with what had come from his own mouth -

“I don’t want Haydon! I want _you_!”

Fiedler stood abruptly, and Leamas promptly forgot how to breathe. He was blushing furiously, fingers clenched into fists by his sides before he leaned in a flattened them on the table top. “Professor,” he spoke so quietly, “I want _you_.”

All his anger seemed to leave him all at once. Fiedler sounded so genuine. “Fiedler…”

The boy leant back, and for a moment, Leamas thought he might leave. He was filled with a terrible relief when he didn’t.

Fiedler walked around the desk slowly, as he had all those days ago. Leamas could see where he had gone wrong, but he was powerless against that intense, sincere gaze.

He came around to his side and stopped short a metre from Leamas. He tilted his chin and it seemed to lift him inches.

“Stop denying yourself, Professor.”

Leamas stared. "Sorry?"

Fiedler sighed softly, and Alec was taken by the way his lips curved upwards. "You’re overcomplicating this.”

He huffed in disbelief. "Overcomplicating? Fiedler, you don’t understand,” Leamas lowered his voice. “You’re talking about a relationship between a student and a professor.” The disbelief was inherent. “It’s-” _illegal, wrong, immoral, tempting, tantalising -_

"Overcomplicated.” There it was again. How did Fiedler not understand what he was asking for? “You want to fuck me and I want you to fuck me. What's there to understand?"

Leamas’ voice escaped him. _I don’t just want to -_  The world seemed to stop spinning. Every ounce of his logic abandoned him in that moment. All that was left was the pretty student with the beautiful body and delicate fingers, asking to be - .

_I don’t just want to – I want you. All of you._

The kiss was hungry, desperate, fuelled by some innate passion. It wasn’t the calm, sweet thing they shared last week. Leamas could feel that sharp tongue curl in his mouth and draw a moan from the base of his throat. _This is wrong,_ he thought, and pushed his student hard against the desk by his hips. _This is so, so wrong,_ he thought as he pulled Fiedler’s tie free from his collar, latching his lips onto that beautifully pale neck and teasing darling sounds from those kiss-bruised lips. _This is –_

“ _Professor,”_  Fiedler whispered into his ear.

_So, so right._

Leamas had stopped fighting it, stopped trying to drown the desire and need simmering in the marrow of his bones. He let Fiedler take him by the hand and by the tongue, their fingers overlapped as his student showed him all the secret places beneath his blazer. With his guiding touch, Leamas dragged his blunt fingernails down the ridges of a protruding ribcage, down the hollowing of a smooth navel. _This is me,_ Fiedler seemed to be saying. Then from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, down to the edge of his trousers, _this is me, and I’m all yours._

Fiedler was right. He had been denying himself. All that time, he could have had _this._ His lips left a burning trail on that soft skin as Fiedler came undone in his hands. Leamas would never forget it: their first time.

It seemed almost trivial, cliché: an office, a professor, a student. It was anything but. Leamas was gentle, cradling all of Fiedler’s sharp edges like glass. His grip was firm and his touch measured, as if leaving bruises on those narrow hips would invariably taint the lovely thing below him. Leamas lost himself in Fiedler, in all his sharp angles and fragile lines where his hands fit so perfectly. His chin resting comfortably in the hollow space between Fiedler’s shoulder and neck, the jarring ridges of a delicate spine pushed tightly against his chest.

Their quiet breathing flooded the office with the loveliest sort of music. Moving in tandem, Leamas wrapped his strong arms around that slender figure and held him close. Fiedler would _hum_ softly, a shy laugh filling the space between them as he shuddered in Leamas’ hold, letting himself fall.

_How could something so wrong feel so perfect? So incredibly right?_

When it was over, there was no guilt or regret pervading his mind as he feared. There was no professor and student. There was Leamas and Fiedler, Alec and Jens.

*

Leamas washed his face in the little bathroom joined to his office.

The cold water was heavenly against his warm skin, his fingers digging into the hollows of his eyes, trying to push the tension away from his temples.

He turned off the facet and curled his strong fingers on either side of the porcelain sink.

Leamas’ reflection stared back at him, five o’clock shadow lining a strong jaw, dark hair he knew would eventually grey at the temples, steely eyes filled with immeasurable conflict.

Fiedler waited for him outside those doors. Leamas knew he would be dressed, immaculate, perfect, as if the last hour did not pass. He might smile endearingly, and Leamas might collect him in his arms and rest his ear against the heartbeat thudding calmly in his chest.

It would be lovely, and Fiedler would still be his student and Leamas would still be his professor, and perhaps that would be okay.

*

Fiedler was perched on the desk, half-sitting with his socked feet balanced on the edge of Leamas’ chair. His tie was redone in an immaculate Windsor knot, a cigarette balanced precariously between two white teeth.

“Take your feet of my chair,” Leamas grumbled, “and no smoking in the office.”

Fiedler laughed. It was light-hearted, honest, fluttering between them like butterfly wings. Leamas would never get sick of hearing it. “Sorry, sir,” he replied, and kept his feet on the chair, and the cigarette between his lips.

Leamas sighed fondly, and leaned on the desk beside Fiedler. The boy pulled a packet of Navy Stripes from the inside of his blazer and offered one to his Professor.

Leamas carefully balanced it between two fingers as Fiedler lit it for him, the short moment stretching to eat up the time as they enjoyed the Stripes in silence. Smoke danced gently through the air, curling between them to the open window on the other wall.

After a few minutes, the sun beginning to ease into the horizon, Fiedler released a soft breath. “Was that okay Professor?”

He glanced up at Leamas with an incredibly sincere expression. Leamas was taken aback, “I – well, what was?”

He cleared his throat as a smile turned Fiedler’s lips upwards. “You’re blushing, Professor.”

Leamas huffed in embarrassment. “I noticed, thanks,” but Fiedler just shook his head,

“Was it though?” He stared with expectation. “Good? Was I alright?”

“You were more than just-” Leamas paused, the cigarette almost tumbling from his lips. Fiedler’s diffidence, his sudden caution. It was almost as if he were nervous. _Don’t tell me_ – “Fiedler, was this-” he glanced away, “was this your first time?”

The smile was ever present, but from the corner of his eye Leamas could see the blush crawling above a neat collar. Fiedler nodded.

Leamas turned to face him more completely, his cigarette forgotten. “Your first time with a man?”

“My first time.” When his professor didn’t respond, Fiedler continued. “With a man or woman.”

“Uh,” the heat was beginning to near Leamas’ fingertips as he came to terms with the confession. “So you’ve never-”

“No.”

“Not with-”

“Only you Professor,” Fiedler pulled the Navy Stripe from his lips and folded his hands on his lap. “Should I-” he sounded more uncertain than Leamas had ever heard, “should I have told you? Am I not adhering to appropriate social convention?” He threaded a thin hand through his hair worriedly. “I didn’t think-”

“No,” Leamas interrupted. “No, I mean – you don’t – you didn’t have to.” What on earth was the appropriate social convention for taking your student against the desk? The silence suddenly felt all consuming. He put out the cigarette for something to do. Leamas had never been anyone’s first.

Fiedler looked away.

“Fiedler-”

“Jens.”

“Jens.” The name rolled nicely between his teeth. His tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. “Jens,” he corrected, watching those delicate fingers curl into themselves, “Why me?”

His student finally looked at him. His brow was furrowed and his eyes serious when he replied. “Who else?”

 _Who else?_ As if it were the most obvious thing in the entire world. _Who else?_

Words were lost to Leamas, who instead took to staring at the bright figure beside him, innately desperate for a glimpse into those clever thoughts. Jens let him stare a moment longer before slipping off the desk and into his Oxfords.

“I should get going, Professor,” Leamas was left to watch the arch of his narrow back as he tied the laces with thin fingers, leaning further to grab the messenger back from where he’d left it earlier. “I can’t skip another one of Professor Mundt’s lectures, no matter how much I’d like to,” the words were light hearted but his voice was laden with a surprising tension. He turned back to Leamas before the man could reply, “This was-”

Leamas stood from the desk. “Yes, it was.”

The boy nodded, his foot bouncing off the carpet almost subconsciously. “I’ll see you around then Professor?” Jens seemed hesitant, as if expecting Leamas to kick him out again.

“Yes,” he smiled, and the fragmented hitch of breath he received in reply was the most perfect validation.

*

Leamas didn’t know what to call what they had.

Some days, Jens would lock the door, sit himself comfortably on Leamas’ lap, and run his thin fingers through the thick hair. He would trace pale temples with blunt fingernails, drawing gentle lines along Leamas’ jaw, laying butterfly kisses on the hollow of a long neck. Leamas’ hands would be fastened around his slight waist, the sounds of parting buttons louder than any words.

Other days, he would sit in the other chair with his legs perched on the desk as they argued about this-and-that, or he would wonder around Leamas’ office as he marked essays. He would be fascinated by all the little trinkets from the professor’s travels, curious but quiet about the old photographs he found in cluttered drawers.

They fell into a dangerously comfortable routine: tethered between a romance, a friendship, an innately private dance which made them both a little bit more whole. Standing on the edge of a deep abyss, they had to tread all too lightly.

And yet, the regret was still absent from his bones, and the twinkle in those devious eyes still rocked his heart in its ribcage.

It was in all the little moments, Leamas supposed, as he watched Jens flicker a short smile from the other side of the lecture hall.

Indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f i n a l l y

“Jens,” Leamas sighed fondly as his student slipped through the door. “You can’t just keep skipping Mundt’s lectures.”

The boy in question just rolled his eyes, balancing his cigarette between his teeth as he closed the door carefully behind him.

“Where’s your ashtray?” he diverted.

Leamas snorted as he heard the door lock, coming from behind his desk. “You know I don’t smoke Jens,”

The boy inhaled deeply for a moment, and Leamas watched his cheeks hollow visibly, “But I do.”

Leamas laughed as Jens plucked the cigarette from his lips, edging towards the desk. He opened his bag and drew out his own ashtray because _of course he did_. After putting the cigarette out, the boy turned back to him, and in a moment, Leamas had an armful of deliciously protruding bones and narrow places.

Jens fisted his hands gently into Leamas’ shirt as the older man wrapped his arms around his waist and shoulders, feeling warm breath on his neck.

“I missed you,” the boy muttered into his skin, and Leamas felt warm. Their hips aligned as Jens tilted his head to look at him through his eyelashes.

Leamas pressed a quick kiss into his hair, relishing in how Jens practically melted against him. As if his touch robbed Jens of all the tension in the world.

He moved them back until Leamas was perched against the desk, his student comfortable in the space between his legs.

“You can’t keep skipping, Jens,”

Jens sighed. “He repeats himself in class…”

Leamas shook his head, one hand sliding to finger a loose lock by his student’s cheek. “That’s no excuse, Jens. Attendance is important. You could get into serious trouble if this becomes a habit.”

A soft sound came from the back of his throat as Jens flattened two delicate palms against Leamas’ broad shoulders. “I know,” he reconciled, “but he’s just such a-”

He paused, and Leamas felt him shake his head, hair tickling his cheek.

“He’s a what?”

Jens looked away. “It’s nothing. You’re right.” There was a moment of silence. “But since I’m here…”

His devious smile did terrible things to Leamas, who was almost overcome with the urge to hold him like this forever, to taste the laughter between his cheeks.

“Jens-” he was cut off by a sudden sweet kiss, and he forced himself to pull back, laughing. “This is serious!”

But Jens was undeterred, lips trailing secret whispers into the hollow his neck. He let out a delightful little laugh as Alec’s throat vibrated against his mouth.

“Jens, I’m being _serious_ ,” the tremble of his voice didn’t seem to help matters. “Students are punished for this sort of-”

The boy paused, and Leamas realised his mistake immediately.

A brilliant smile. “Are you going to punish me, Professor?”

Jens glanced up, eyes dark, tongue pressing against his lower lip. It lasted a whole moment before the boy transcended into a hysteria of childish giggles. Leamas followed in suit, feeling that lithe body trembling against him.

Jens spoke between his laughter, breathless, “I cannot believe you said that!”

Leamas silenced him with a kiss, and in the few hours he became so glad Jens had skipped Mundt’s lecture.

*****

Smiley pushed the door open with his foot, glass tumblers balanced between long fingers. He was sure Leamas wouldn’t mind him dropping by announced. It was Friday night after all – the man was sure to have little busying him besides the endless essays.

He peaked his head into the office. Leamas’ desk was surprisingly empty. Smiley inched his way in and close the door behind him, eyes flickering to the closed bathroom door on the other side.

He hummed to himself as he steadied the glasses on Leamas’ desk, by the ash tray. _When had he started smoking?_ Smiley made a mental note to ask, wandering to the old cabinet in search of his friend’s 18-year-old scotch. Leamas always kept the best scotch. Uncorking the Cardhu, he gently let the amber liquid lick the sides of the glass, sloshing carefully at the crystal base. As he returned the bottle to the cabinet –

_Thud._

Startled, he turned to the closed bathroom door. _That did not sound good._

He gently closed the cabinet door, about to call out when he heard the shuffling. It was gratuitous, hurried. _What on earth are you doing, Alec?_ He took steady steps towards the noise, intent on calling out when –

Laughter.

It was a light, harmonic sound, filtering like smoke from beneath the closed door. _Was that –_

“ _Professor!”_ Smiley froze, a numbness simmering beneath his fingernails. That was Fiedler. Except what on earth was Fiedler doing in Alec’s private bathroom?

“Jens,” Oh. Oh God. Alec’s baritone voice was splayed playfully, “you’re going to give me grey hair.”

“You’ve already got-” the words were suddenly cut off, and Smiley could hear the awfully familiar sound of kisses peppering skin through the door.

He could not move. It may have taken seconds or minutes before it ended. “Professor-” it was breathless, toiled around a smooth tongue with care, “I think,” there was a hitch of breath, Fiedler lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I quite like it when you punish me.”

_Oh God._

Smiley couldn’t listen anymore, but his feet were tethered to the carpet with morbid fascination. The door budged as something – _someone –_ was slammed against it.

_Oh God._

_Alec and Fiedler –_ Alec _and_ Fiedler – Alec and _a student._

He did not move, painfully conscious of the repetitive _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock nailed to the wall. His mind was a whirlwind of _this-can’t-be_ and _I’m-going-to-kill-you-Alec._

It brought him little pleasure when the bathroom door was flung open, and Fiedler’s bright smile melted away to reveal terribly wide eyes as they found him. Smiley took a moment to take in his ruffled appearance, his loose tie, the wrinkles on his trousers from where he’d been kneeling. Where he’d been _kneeling._

The boy froze. All the colour bled from his face, breath escaping his lips in a gasp.

Leamas bumped into him from behind, one hand secured on a narrow waist. “Jens, what’re you-”

Leamas looked up, and Smiley took all the pleasure from _his_ expression.

Silence reigned for a long, tense moment. Smiley’s glare seemed to drink the air from the room, leaving his friend’s mouth lax. He looked like a fish out of water.

“George – _Goerge_ – I can-”

“Yes, Alec?”

“Professor we weren’t-” Fiedler interjected, words spilling in a frenzied panic, “it’s not what you think,” he finished lamely, and Smiley turned his piercing glare to the boy, who visibly withered. He pressed himself back into Alec’s hold.

“And what do you think I think, Fiedler?” His voice swallowed up the silence like dry ice. His eyes flickered to the unusually tousled mess of the boy’s hair. Fiedler did not respond.

“George,” Alec cleared his throat. _Oh, this is going to be good._ “Fiedler was just-”

“Scrubbing the tiles for you?”

Leamas’ face became frighteningly blank over Fiedler’s shoulder. The boy choked, his eyes drifting to the sorry state of his trousers. He looked feint.

Smiley sighed, taking pity on him. “Fiedler, get out.”

“I-” Fiedler glanced back at Leamas for a moment, the professor nodding with a jerk of his head. Smiley watched as Leamas’ fingers tightened around the boy’s waist for a moment, before slipping. _God._ The boy spared a quick glance at Smiley before slipping from between the two men, head bowed as he grabbed his messenger bag from beneath Leamas’ desk. He basically sprinted from the room, the door thudding closed too loudly behind him.

George tilted his head at his friend, and took no pity on him.

*

“- the most downright irresponsible, ridiculous, bloody unbelievable stunt you’ve ever pulled. Honestly, _honestly,_ Alec – what in the goddamn world were you thinking!?”

Smiley halted in his pacing, finally turning to face his friend. Leamas sat stoically in the kitchen chair, avoiding Smiley’s glare. He looked like a naughty schoolboy, and Smiley would have laughed if not for the sheer seriousness of situation.

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Nothing to say?”

Leamas sighed tiredly. “What do you want me to say, George?” The resignation in his voice was resounding.

“I want you,” Smiley drew in a deep breath, threading his fraying nerves with the last of his composure, “to explain to me why Fiedler was – is,” he hesitated for a moment, “Are you in a relationship with a student, Alec?”

Leamas didn’t reply for a moment. He finally glanced up, “Yes.”

“He’s a student.”

“Yes.”

“A _male_ student.”

“Yes.”

“He’s half you’re age.”

“He’s not-” A sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

Smiley shook his head slowly. “Something that makes sense.”

He folded himself into the kitchen chair opposite his friend. Leamas did not look guilty.

“He’s a consenting adult.”

A bitter laugh bubbled at the back of Smiley’s throat, “He’s nineteen!” His palms found the table top heavily. “What the _hell_ are you thinking? All this – this risk – for _what_? A quick shag? So you can feel _young_ again?”

Leamas huffed, his eyes darkening with anger. “You know what it’s like to _feel_ for someone much younger!”

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“Ann’s not my student!”

 “It’s not about that, George,” his voice was simmering, “It more, it’s-”

“What? What is it Alec?” Smiley’s disbelief could barely be translated into words.

“It’s just – not,” he finished lamely. “Jens is,” Smiley ran a frustrated hand through his hair, _what on earth happened to ‘Fiedler’,_ “brilliant. I could talk to him for hours, George, and not realise it. His conviction – his mind – his quirks- he’s perfect.” He finished quietly, and the pounding behind his eyes threatened to burst Smiley’s skull.

“Right,” Smiley nodded almost to himself. Leamas looked anxious, his knuckles whitening from where he gripped the edge of the table. Smiley swore he could hear his heart beating in his ribcage. “So, you’ve developed emotions. I understand. Fiedler is brilliant, yes, he’s witty and clever and pretty, yes.” _Deep breath._ “You’ve been lonely since Emma and he makes you feel young-”

“This isn’t about _Emma_!” Leamas had rarely ever raised his voice at Smiley. His eyes widened,

“How can you be so blind, Alec? You were compromised, you formed an attachment, it’s-”

“Damn it, Smiley! I’m not blind, I’m certain!”

“ _Certain_?” The wooden chair almost toppled as he stood. “You haven’t even thought this through-”

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about!” Leamas’ earnest expression made him feel feint. “For months and months George – why do you think I took all that time off?” He bit his lip, “All I’ve been doing is thinking. And I can’t – I can’t deny this, myself, anymore.”

“Do you even hear yourself, Alec?” Disbelief was wedged between every word.

Leamas stood slowly, “You’re the one who’s not hearing me, George.”

“Fine!” His arms flew in an exasperated motion by his ears. “Fine! So, you’re intentions are – are _pure_ , let’s say,” the sarcasm in his tone was suffocating, “how can you possibly speak for Fiedler?”

Leamas stepped back, surprised, as if the question had never seemed necessary. “Fiedler?”

“Yes, Alec. How do you know he’s not doing this for a bit of fun? Did you ever think about that before you acted so recklessly?”

“I know, George. He feels the same.” His voice was weak to Smiley’s ears.

“Oh, you just know, do you?”

“Yes – I do. If he – if he was looking for _that_ he would’ve gone to Haydon.”

Smiley felt cold. “How do you know he hasn’t?”

The silence seemed to stretch, and stretch, and stretch. Leamas brows furrowed and his hands were clenched into fists by his side.

“He hasn’t.” His words pushed Smiley to the edge, Leamas’ frightening certainty bubbling the disappointment between his bones.

“You know,” he snorted, his words so quiet, “I would’ve expected this from Haydon – but you…” He shook his head, grabbing his coat off the shoulders of the chair in an abrupt movement. “Do you even know where he lives? About his family? When his birthday is?”

Leamas did not speak as Smiley pushed his arms into the sleeves, buttoning the coat up to the collar. He turned his back to his friend and trudged through the long corridor.

Leamas followed him through the flat, pausing a metre from the door. Smiley did not look at his friend as he spoke.

“How can do you not realise what you’ve done? How selfish you’re being?” Silence. “What you could lose – what _he_ could lose?”

A heavy sigh ate up the quiet, Smiley’s fingers feeling a little numb as he opened the door. “End it, Alec.” He closed it delicately behind him.

*

Smiley was almost surprised when Fiedler turned up to the next lecture.

The boy sat at the back, unusually quiet, as if Smiley’s glare had eaten up all his words. His head was tucked down, dark locks shadowing his expression as he copied every word with deliberate intensity.

Smiley did his best to avoid staring often. He was still raw from his conversation – his _argument –_ with Leamas, forcing himself to focus on the emergence of existentialist thought during the 1950s.

“And so,” he cleared his throat, “In the years after Hiroshima – Nagasaki – we saw the exponential rise of avant-garde literature, brought to us by the likes of Beckett and Camus and-”

The lecture drifted ahead of him, and time fled and soon enough, he was dismissing the students with a wave of his hand.

“Now,” he readjusted his frames, using his forefinger to push them up the bridge of his nose, “don’t forget the required reading.”

He kept his eye on Jens as the boy attempted to slither between the other students and disappear. As he passed the podium, Smiley looked away and called,

“Fiedler – stay a moment, will you?”

From the corner of his eye, he could see the boy’s shoulders straighten with unease. He stopped, and turned ever-so-slowly on his heels, dread lagging his usually smooth movements.

Smiley packed his files away with deliberate slowness, enjoying the nervous tension thrilling Fiedler’s body. He could hear the impatient _thump-thump-thump_ as the boy’s foot bounced off the floorboards.

He looked up and the tapping stilled. Fiedler focused everywhere but his face. Smiley supressed a sigh.

“My office then?”

Fiedler finally met his eyes, and he looked as if he would give anything for the ground to fracture and swallow him whole. He nodded mutely, and Smiley wondered if he even had the voice to talk.

He pulled his suitcase off the podium and smiled his most artificial smile, leading the way.

Smiley could hear Fiedler hurrying behind him. He did not wait.

*

Smiley had never seen anyone look so uncomfortable.

Fiedler’s shoulders could have doubled as a ruler, tension plastering his back against the wooden chair. His messenger bag rested on his lap, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, knuckles white from the hard press of fingers into his elbows. His teeth bit into his lower lip and his eyes were focused on some spot on his desk. He looked painfully small.

Smiley cleared his throat, voice impassive. “Fiedler.”

The boy looked up, frighteningly pale. “Professor.” His voice was quiet, uncertain. Smiley quelled the pang of unease in his chest.

“I’m not going to sugar coat this.” Fiedler flattened his palms against his sleeves. “What you’re doing is wrong. It’s inappropriate and it’s against protocol.”

Fiedler did not respond. Smiley had not expected him to.

“And you’re going to end it.”

“No.”

Smiley huffed with clear disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Fiedler shook his head. “No.”

“No – no _what_?”

“No _Professor._ ”

_You have got to be kidding me._

“Fiedler, I don’t think you understand what you’re saying.” Smiley curled his fingers tightly around the steaming mug of earl grey.

The boy sighed, looking no less unsettled. “I understand perfectly Professor.”

The silence stretched threateningly. Smiley could have shattered his mug against the wall.

“Do you even understand the implications of what you’re doing? Of _this game_?”

Fiedler sounded frustrated, “It’s not a game-”

“That’s precisely what it is.” He ignored Fiedler’s huff, “You’re clever Fiedler. Maybe the brightest student I’ve ever known,” he leaned forward, “so I can’t understand why you’re being so bloody thoughtless.” He continued when there was no response.

“Aren’t you afraid I’m going to tell Headmaster Control?”

Fiedler shifted in his seat for the first time. “No.”

“Why ever not?” He pulled a slow sip from his tea, forcing himself to calm down.

“Because of Professor Leamas.”

Smiley gave him credit for not saying _Alec._ He nodded matter-of-factly. “Indeed. Because Alec is a selfish son of a bitch, but he is still one of my oldest and dearest friends. And I am not about to compromise his future over this,” _over you._

Fiedler was silent.

“This will ruin him.” No response. Smiley took a deep breath. “He’s risking _everything_ Fiedler – his professional integrity, his career, his life’s work – and for _what_? A bit of fun?”

“It’s not.”

Smiley tilted his head. "You know, Alec told me the same thing earlier.” Fiedler’s ears seemed to perk at the mention of his professor. “And he couldn’t answer me. Not a bit of fun, right– but what – what _is it_ then?”

He looked hard at the boy, all compassion having fled his being. “You can’t answer me either, can you Jens?” The moment felt heavy between them. “Why Alec?”

The boy seemed surprised. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t play daft, Jens,” he breathed the words so slowly, “why Alec?” His lips downturned into a frown. “You could have anyone, couldn’t you? You’re bright, charming. Why not someone your own age? Why not a professor more inclined to indulge in your advances?”

“My advances?” The words were deceptively soft.

“Yes, _your_ advances Jens. Because I know for a fact, no matter how terribly Leamas desires something, he would never pursue it. Not if he knew how wrong it was.”

“It isn’t wrong.” The conviction in the boy’s voice mirrored Alec’s. It was unsettling.

“ _Why_? Can’t you even tell me that? Money?” Fiedler’s eyes widened at the suggestion, but Smiley would not let him interrupt. “Did you hear about his estate and realise you needed a back-up plan?”

“No _-”_

“Not when you’re struggling with Christa?”

“ _No_.”

“Collect some blackmail, a threat here and there-”

“I’d never-”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“ _No!_ ”

Smiley had never heard Fiedler raise his voice before. The boy’s cheeks had adopted a red tinge, his breathing shallow and quick. Those dark eyes seemed to glisten in the amber light.

“You don’t care about him, Jens.” He shook his head sadly. “Not really. It’s some childish infatuation you’re harbouring that got severely out of hand.”

Fiedler didn’t speak.

“Do you understand how selfish you’re being, putting him in this position? How _reckless_?”

Fiedler was just beginning to fray, Smiley could see the whites of his knuckles from here. This was taking too long.

He’d take another route then.

“You’re alright with them then?” Smiley’s voice was the embodiment of calm. He spoke as if he were ordering off a menu.

“Alright with who?” The boy sounded so worn, Smiley almost regretted his decision.

“His children.” Fiedler might have stopped breathing. He looked as if he were going to be sick, drawing his arms tighter around himself. “I’m sure you’ll get along. You’re about the same age.” _Almost there._

The boy’s stuttering inhale of breath saddened him, but he was too close to stop now. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

The silence was telling.

“I thought you were important to him.”

That seemed to do it. His words hammered relentlessly against Fiedler’s hard exterior until it cracked, his entire body trembling severely before stilling. He was taken aback when the boy pressed the back of his hands into the hollows of his eyes, his skin suddenly wet.

He was -

_Oh. I made him cry. Fiedler is –_

Smiley took a step back. _What am I doing?_

Fiedler – _God –_ the boy looked so overwhelmed. So blatantly devastated. He was just a boy. Smiley had been so overcome with frustration at Leamas’ inability to see sense that he had actively taken it out on Fiedler.

His student looked away in embarrassment, lips pressed into a hard line, and Smiley felt shame simmering the marrow of his bones.

He sighed, suddenly so exhausted. His earl grey had become cold.

“Just tell me why, and then you can leave,” he dismissed with a cautious motion of his hand.

Fiedler looked in deep thought for a moment, his words shallow and deliberate, “Because…”

“ _Why_?”

“ _Because I lo-”_

Time grew slower and slower until they were suspended in the terrible, defining moment. Smiley could feel the shock re-energising the boy, fuelling the pump of blood through his veins.

The boy jerked in surprise, as if he had not expected his own words. A thin hand flew to his lips as he struggled to process his own near-confession. Fiedler’s genuine voice, his diffidence, his –

He stood abruptly, and Smiley rushed around the table in a second.

Fiedler was half-way to the door, but Smiley’s hand was clamped around his forearm tightly, painfully, grip shackling him to his place.

“You _what_? Jens – _you what?_ ”

The boy looked up, and the hollows of his translucently pale cheeks were wet with tears. The shadows nestled in the sharp edges of his features thinned his face even more, and his eyes – his eyes were devastating.

Fiedler ripped his arm from his grasp and slid from the office before Smiley could breathe.

*

_Do you even know where he lives? About his family? When his birthday is?_

No, Leamas did not.

He knew Jens lived in a little flat in the inner city, a fifty-five minute train ride to the university. He knew Jens did not speak about his family, only that he had a little _Christa_ who seemed to be the only person eating up more of his time and attention than Leamas. Leamas knew he worked in a little library. He knew he was nineteen.

This – this _thing_ with Jens – it still felt so raw, so new. The first few days had been tentative, fears and morals still desperately looming over their shoulders. In two months – two months – he’d felt as if Jens had always been there, a sly shadow slinking through the door, a set of thin fingers threaded through his hair. A calming presence to replace his scotch with water and bring his own ashtray to Leamas’ office.

But he didn’t _really_ know him, did he? Then again, he hadn’t told Jens much either.

God – he _dreaded_ telling Jens about Emma, about his –

His children. His two teenage children who were a few years younger than his – his partner? Lover? _Boyfriend?_

Leamas suddenly felt silly, out of his depth. He desired Jens so completely, but moments like this, his scotch heavy in his hand, the warmth of the bar suddenly so suffocating, he hesitated.

“May I join you?”

Leamas lifted his head, Smiley’s voice simultaneously playful and tentative in his ears. He watched his old friend sit on the stool on the opposite side of the little round table, a pint of black beer nestled in front of him.

He sighed as Smiley made himself comfortable.

“I’m not doing it,” the conviction in his voice was hard-pressed. Smiley didn’t look surprised. “I’m not ending it. I’m not leaving him, George.”

His friend looked at him for a long moment before pulling his drink to his lips. “I know,” he mumbled around the rim.

Leamas paused with his tumbler halfway off the table. “You spoke to him, didn’t you?”

Smiley looked guilty. Leamas could see it in the furrow of his brows. “What’d you do? What’d you do, George?”

The man hesitated, dabbing his lips with a napkin. The unease crawled up Leamas’ spine slowly.

“We just had a civil conversation, Alec.” Smiley sounded painfully innocent, unassuming.

“ _George-”_

“Anyway,” his friend dismissed his worry with a careless wave of his hand, “if you’re committed to this idiotic plan of yours as much as he is, you’re going to need to be more careful.”

Leamas downed his drink in an abrupt movement, relishing the vertigo thrilling his mind. “I know.”

_Oh, I know._

*

The wall was hard against his back.

_Just go in._

Jens inhaled deeply. His leg bounced incessantly of the concrete and he did not know how to make it stop.

_Just go in._

The door was right beside him. It was shabby, old timber thing housing the most, what was the Americanism for it? Mom-and-Pop café? The most Mom-and-Pop café he’d ever seen.  It was a little hideaway a good hour from Cambridge, shrouded in the smell of fresh-baked pastries and ground coffee beans.

_Just go in._

Ordinarily, Jens would have rushed right through, fluttering butterfly wings tickling his insides, a smile he saved for one person stretching his cheeks. Ordinarily, he’d look forward to whatever sweet Alec decided on, he’d look forward to forcing the man into letting him pay half.

God, Jens had messed up.

He wanted to desperately to go in, see the reassurance in those dark eyes, realise this catastrophe would not crumble their relationship around their ears.

His heel was beginning to ache, the strap of his messenger bag cutting into his palm. Jens took another deep breath, forcing himself further against the wall as if it could just swallow him up. He couldn’t help it. Nervousness threaded his veins together, pumping blood through his heart so quickly he feared his ribcage may crack with the force.

His conversation with Professor Smiley had been like a kick to the chest. He despised him. Professor Smiley despised him.

 _He was not wrong to though, was he?_ No. Of course it was the conclusion he’d come to – that Jens was just playing with Alec. That he wanted his _money_ of all things. _Estate. I didn’t even know he had an estate._ Jens pressed his free palm into his eye, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He could deal with it. He had lived through so many assumptions and pre-conceptions. He had been judged and misjudged. So why did this hurt so much?

Jens had thought about it, on the bus, the train, the walk through the alleyways. It hurt because it _mattered._ Because Professor Smiley was Alec’s closest friend and he despised him. Because he saw right through Jens’ charming façade and picked him apart like a child with a puzzle.

Because he took one glance at him, and confirmed every fear Jens had exhausted himself trying to suffocate over the past few months. Because for all he was, Jens was selfish. Of course Professor Smiley was right. The way he’d confronted Alec, the corner he backed him into.

_Your advances._

Oh, how selfish he was.

Jens could feel the tremors worsening. He pressed both palms hard against his trousers in futility, ignoring the sudden blur framing his vision. He glanced around quickly, gaze falling on an old bench two or so metres to his right.

He stumbled to it, hands blindly grasping at the wood until he managed to sit down.

 _In, out._ In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like his mother taught him. He drew his arms tightly around himself. Thinking of his mother did not seem to help.

_Fool. Clear your head, Jens._

_In. Out. In. Out._

He might have sat there for seconds or minutes until his tremors began to subside. The sky seemed suddenly darker, the air chillier. He patted down his coat until he found the pocket with his cigarettes, drawing one quickly with shaky fingers. He didn’t light it.

What if Professor Smiley was right? What if he was being foolish?

He hadn’t – _breathe –_ he hadn’t wanted to seduce Alec, not, not as Professor Smiley accused him. He just needed Alec to _see_ him, like _he’d_ seen Alec. He’d sat, all those months, at the back of the lecture hall, entranced by the brilliant man critiquing all those fascinating economic frameworks. Professor Smiley was right about one thing – he’d been infatuated. All those months he told Christa _it’s nothing_ when she asked about his smile.

And then he’d finally spoken, and Alec had taken one look at picked apart his apart his argument in that brilliant, nuanced, careless manner of his. And Jens knew, that was it. He was it.

Jens deserved _some_ happiness too, didn’t he?

He sighed, leaning back into the old bench and flicking his thumb against the unlit cigarette. He should have never ditched Mundt’s lecture, should’ve never sneaked into Alec’s office, should’ve never leaned up and –

And he’d made it _worse._ Shame bubbled in his chest as he remembered his tears. His confession.

His confession.

_I lo-_

_I love. I love him._

Oh. His head lolled exhausted against the back of the bench, the grey sky suddenly breaking into view.

Was this _love_? Surely not – it had just come out, in the terrible heat of the moment. He’d been overwhelmed. He genuinely admired Alec, respected him. Alec could make him smile, laugh, and the space between his arms made Jens feel so, so safe.

But this – this _thing,_ this relationship – it was so incredibly new and fragile. He knew nothing about Alec – not really – not his life beyond teaching, not his children.

Jens swallowed. The clouds looked stagnant, tufts of cotton stark against a grey canvas. Alec hadn’t said anything about children.

He sighed, suddenly exhausted. He knew Alec would have told him eventually, he _knew_. But – how old where they? Did they study? Work? Did Alec see them? What about his wife?

 _Oh._ He refused to believe he was Alec’s mistress.

 _You’re overthinking._ He breathed in again, in through the nose, out through the mouth. _Overcomplicating._

_Just go on._

He looked at the cigarette between his fingers, tucking it back into the box.

_Just. Go. In._

He did.

*

Jens carefully slid between the rickety chairs and tables, coat drawn tight around himself. He kept his head down, curls shadowing his face as he trembled with the sudden cold. There was one window perched open on the other side of the café, and the draft felt relentless.

He glanced up, finally reaching the back of Alec’s head.

His Professor seemed to hear him coming, chin tilting towards him. He smiled. Jens could not help the quiet relief thrilling his joints at Alec’s warm gaze.

Jens pressed his hand quickly against a broad shoulder on his way to his seat, as if to ease the tension wrought between Alec’s muscles. The man seemed to deflate at his touch, leaning into his palm.

“Jens,” he sat, sliding his bag next to him, inhaling calm which seemed foregrounded in that lovely, baritone voice. Alec was smiling. That meant everything.

Jens smiled back. “I thought perhaps Professor Smiley had scared you away,” he framed it as a joke, and they both knew it was anything but.

“No,” Alec smiled, scratching his chin, his voice awfully fond. “He’s just worried.” The man shifted in his chair, looking almost uncomfortable. “I was actually worried about what he said to you.”

Smiley hadn’t said anything then. Brilliant.

“Nothing important,” Jens dismissed, and knew very well that Alec could see right through him, “he’s just trying to protect you.” _From me._ It should not have hurt as much as it did.

“I’m not a child,” a hint of frustration, “I’m-”

“Can I get you boys anything?” He hadn’t even heard the click of her heels.

The waitress had a painfully chirpy voice. Jens forced a smile, glancing up at her severe bun and withered face. _JANET_ was clipped onto her white blouse.

Alec cleared his throat. “Just an Earl Grey for me, half milk.”

Jens grinned as if to say _how English,_ and Alec grinned back knowingly. “Black coffee please.”

“Sugar?”

 _Two please._ “One please.”

At the sight of her retreating back, Alec sighed.

“You don’t even like black coffee,” he said fondly, a little smile twisting his lips, the tension pervading their previous conversation suddenly lost.

 _It costs the least,_ “I _do_ ,” Jens leaned both elbows far onto the small table. “Besides, I’m not English enough for Earl Grey.”

Alec snorted, running a hand through his hair. Jens watched, pinpointing the moment his smile faded again.

“Jens,” his voice was cautious, sad, and Jens hated it. “We need to stop.”

He might have stopped breathing for a moment.

Logic fled him and he suddenly felt so cold. _We need to stop. We need to stop. We need to-_

Alec must have seen something terrible on his face, because he suddenly looked sick.

“Not _stop,_ stop – Jens, God no-” it was a funny thing to breathe again, “just at the office. It’s not safe.”

Jens leaned back, loose-boned. He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Yes, of course. I didn’t think…”

The clicking of heels obnoxiously ate up his words. Janet carefully placed his coffee and Alec’s tea on the table.

“Can I get you boys anything else?” Jens bit back a sigh.

“No, thank you,” Alec’s eyes flicked to her blouse, “Janet.” He smiled, and Janet looked like love at first sight. Jens wondered how long it would be before she started making heart eyes at Alec.

He looked away, carefully closing his fingers around the rim of the chipped saucer and drawing it towards him. The fading sound of footsteps relaxed him.

When he looked up, Alec was looking at him intently.

Jens raised any eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

Alec licked his lower lip, and Jens glanced at the movement unashamedly. Was Alec _nervous?_

“Come over.”

He refocused. “I’m sorry?”

“Come over.”

Jens stared.

“Jens. Jens, you’re not saying anything.” He sounded worried.

Jens cleared his throat again. God, he’d been doing that a lot lately.

“Your flat?”

A moment. Alec shifted, suddenly looking painfully uncertain. “Only if you want-”

“Yes.”

Everything seemed to still.

“Yes?”

Jens could feel a smile hurriedly drawing his lips upward. “Yes.”

The look on Alec’s face sweetened all his worries away.

*

Jens was elated the entire trip back, an unusual lightness thrilling his chest.

Friday, 07:30pm.

He felt giddy, almost embarrassingly so. Shifting his bag on his shoulder, he smiled a thank you to the bus driver on his way out.

The gravel dug into his worn Oxfords, hands curled carelessly in the pockets of his long coat. The wind had picked up as evening set in, but Jens felt too warm to care.

 _It’s just dinner._ His smile wouldn’t fade as he began his short trek from the bus stop to the flat. _Just dinner._

But was it? He bent his head to shield his eyes from the wind, focusing on the press of his feet along the narrow path. He and Alec had eaten together before yes – but this felt so different. It wasn’t confined behind locked doors this time. It was in Alec’s _home._

He lifted his head as the old building came into view. His conversation with Alec had quelled so many devastating doubts and half-truths.

Jens almost felt guilty for being glad Alec made no mention of his children. They weren’t living with him – that much was obvious as he let Jens dictate the date of their dinner. He almost felt guilty. Almost.

He flicked loose locks from his eyes and pushed the main door to the building open with discomfort, the metal frame a touch too heavy to manage with the weight of all his textbooks. Closing it behind him, he breathed in the stale warmth of the run-down complex and began to make his way up the steps.

The dinner was only a few days away. Running his hand along the metal railing, he sighed. Alec had said, _bring nothing. Just yourself._

_Just yourself._

He’d spoken like Jens was the most thrilling part of the evening, and Jens brilliantly recalled the quickening beat of his pulse, the fluttering in the space between his ribs.

Past the second floor he readjusted his bag, the smell of cardamom and cinnamon wafting pleasantly into his senses. _Mrs. Ivanov must be brewing again._

He was tired by the time he reached the third floor, pausing only a moment against the staircase to catch his breath. _What should I wear? What do I even have to where?_

Jens bit his lip, making his way leisurely down the narrow hallway. One pair of good trousers, a dress shirt or two. _The white? No, too formal._ The navy it was then. What about a tie? How formal was it going to _be_? God, he should’ve asked.

He shook his head free from the worrying thoughts as he neared the end of the hallway, right to his apartment–

_Verdammt._

_Bastards,_ he thought vehemently, his mood thoroughly souring as he trudged towards the door.

_Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?_

He glanced a final time at the red, spray-painted swastika eating up half the door before angrily unlocking it and going inside.

He abandoned his bag on the floor, quickly glancing at his watch. _06:25pm._ He had maybe an hour before Liz would drop Christa home from the library.

Jens hurried to his room, stripping off his coat and pulling an old jacket from the doornail. Toeing off his shoes, he made his way back to the kitchen and grabbed a pail from beneath the sink.

 _Bastards._ The warm water sloshed playfully against the red plastic. It had been months since the last time, and he’d naively thought they had decided to leave him alone.

Squeezing a generous amount of soap into the water, he watched the bubbles rise as he pulled a sponge from the cupboard. He collected his kit, moving back through the hallway. Careful to leave the door unlocked, Jens knelt in front of the crudely drawn symbol.

Mood appropriately ruined, he rolled up his sleeves and dipped the sponge into water.

*

Alec sighed for the fourth time in as many minutes, weighing up the bottles in his hands.

The hell was the difference? He twisted the bottle in his right hand. _Bordeaux._ Emma loved her Bordeaux, and she forced it down his throat whenever she could. He cringed, forcing the memory away. He wasn’t particularly fond of it, but he admitted his ex-wife knew her wines.

In his other hand, Cabernet. A bold red, he thought confidently. It was, wasn’t it? Bold? Or was that the other one? God, if George wasn’t about to wring his neck he might have brought him along.

He twisted the neck and squinted at the tiny script printed on the label. He didn’t even _like_ wine. Did _Jens_ even like wine?

“Do you need any assistance, Sir?” a feminine voice echoed from his left. Alec lifted his head, eyes focusing between the high-stacked shelves on a petite woman dressed formally.

_I have no idea what the fuck I am doing._

“I, yes. That would be appreciated it,” he smiled charmingly and lifted both bottles up to her face. “Which one?”

The woman stepped back just in time, and looked at both for a moment as she tried to smother a smile. “And what will you be pairing the wine with, Sir?”

_Um._

She took one look at his face and seemed to understand. “A steak perhaps? Beef, venison, lamb?”

Lamb. Right. Alec knew how to cook lamb. He had recipes for lamb.

“Lamb. Yes.”

She shifted her gaze for a moment. “Cooked how, Sir?”

_In a bloody kitchen._

“Just in a pan.”

The woman looked contemplative before brushing right past him. Alec stumbling back a little, grip tightening around the wine. She leaned up on her tip toes and plucked a different bottle from the shelf.

“You’ll be wanting a more full-bodied red wine,” she careful extracted the other bottles from his grip and returned them one at a time. “Petit Verdot. Plum, lilac aroma, gravel-like minerality.” _She sounds like Emma._ “Guarantees a lovely evening for the lucky lady.”

Alec cleared his throat. Verdot. Right. “Of course, thanks,” he didn’t bother correcting her.

The bottle cost him more than what was bloody reasonable, but he was determined to create such a wonderful evening for Jens.

*

“Christa!”

Jens glanced at his watch again, leaning back against the wall. He uncrossed his legs, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. “Do you plan on arriving sometime before Christmas?”

His little sister came bounding through the corridor, a four-foot bundle of messy pigtails and one shoe.

Jens ran a hand through his hair, smiling exasperatedly. “Really?”

Christa smiled back sheepishly, dragging her backpack behind her. “We’ve got plenty of time, Jens!”

He bit his lip and rushed to his sister, kneeling down in front of her. Jens shook his head, thin fingers readjusting her collar. Christa groaned as he did up the top buttons.

“ _Jens,”_ she drew the word far longer than its one syllable, “you know I can’t breathe when you do that!”

Jens kept his lips upturned, taking one long finger under her little chin. His voice was serious as he spoke, “Your pigtails are in terrible shape.”

His little sister pursed her lips, her eyebrows furrowed together adorably.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he wiped a smidge of toothpaste from her cheek as she groaned, before carefully undoing both ties.

She took a swipe at his hands, her little palms playfully pushing him away. “ _Jens_ ,”

He ignored her, and began to neatly braid her wild curls.

“So,” she spoke slowly, and Jens knew to be wary of that suspicious tone. “Are you wearing the blue one or the white one?”

Jens paused for a moment. “The blue what?”

 _Pssh._ It frightened him more than it should have, coming from her childish pout. “Sei nicht dumm Jens!”

He didn’t respond, successfully taming the first braid before moving on.

Christa sighed dramatically. “At least wear your nice dinner jacket.”

“Don’t you have more exciting things to be thinking about?” He muttered, easing the curls into the second purple hair tie.

“Hmmm,” she eyed him with discontent. “Is this why you’re so excited to ship me away?”

Jens exhaled slowly, knotting the hair tie twice. Finally. “You’re going to camp for the weekend,” he finally looked up at her pouting expression and smothered the urge to fix her fringe. They really had no time. He shook his head as Christa slipped on her other shoe.

“I’m not shipping you off anywhere. You’re taking the bus,” Jens stood, holding out his hand. “Do you have your pyjamas?” She nodded. “Toothbrush? Socks, jacket, books, lunch- ”

“Yes, _Mum,_ ” Jens blinked, willing away the sudden heaviness in his chest.

“Your medication?”

Christa strapped her bag on both shoulders, sliding her tiny hand through his and weaving their fingers together tightly. “You packed it for me!” Jens was about to protest, “Stop worrying. Besides,” she pulled him to the door, “you look worse than I do.”

Jens _tssked_ as he opened the door for her.

“I’m going to miss you,” she spoke quietly.

“You won’t be away long enough to miss me.” Her grip tightened as they made their way down the corridor.

“Still.”

They walked down the narrow staircase in silence.

“You won’t forget about me, will you Jens?”

He looked down at her, fondness fracturing his concern to bits. Or was that fear?

_Stop._

“I’m sorry,” he cleared his throat, “Do I know you?”

Christa laughed, a childish untamed thing, punching his arm weakly with a small fist. “You can’t just say that Jens!”

Past the emanating scent of cardamom and fresh bread, Jens ushered Christa outside. He laughed, ruffling her hair delicately, careful with the neatly braided pigtails. “Come on, we’re going to miss the bus.”

He walked quickly, and she hurried on her short legs to catch up. “You didn’t have to come with me you know. I know the way, I’m ten years old Jens. I’m not a child.”

They reached at the stop as Christa caught her breath, just in time to see the bus pulling up near the sidewalk.

Jens glanced down at his sister and briefly buried a kiss in her hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re a child. You’re going to be a child for a long time.” He drew her back, leaving way for the old woman huddled in a dozen layers to go ahead.

“Now you’re just being bossy,” Christa muttered. “Anyway, the blue looks much better on you. The sleeves aren’t so short.” Jens smiled as they got on the bus. Yes, he’d definitely go with the blue.

*

Smiley looked at him with a look of some terrible suspicion.

“What have you done now, Alec?” His voice was deep, cautious, as if speaking to a child.

Alec rolled his eyes and moved back into the armchair, cradling his tea. Smiley only leaned in. The professor’s lounge was abandoned this time every Friday, but for Mundt who seemed to have absolutely nothing better to do than hunch over a desk and mutter angrily into sub-par student essays.

Alec glanced over at the German, who paid them no mind. Smiley noticed.

“I’ve got a dinner tonight,” he said simply, knowing his friend would wholly catch the implication. Mundt’s presence set him on edge, even though the man could not possibly guess what Alec was referring to.

Smiley looked wary. “At your place?”

Alec nodded, sipping his tea casually. Another glance at Mundt. Was he sipping _too_ casually? _Shut up._

“You don’t think it’s too…” Smiley cleared his throat. “Soon?”

He smothered a sigh. “It’s been months George.” Smiley ran a hand through his greying hair. “We’ve been over this.”

Smiley looked like he was about to protest but seemed to stop himself. “Right.” He lowered his voice, “but Alec-”

“Hello Gentlemen!” Haydon’s cheery voice was booming. From the corner of his eyes, Alec saw Mundt glance up in irritation.

“Haydon,” he muttered and went back to marking. The man in question barely spared him a glance.

“What’re you so chirpy for?” Alec spoke around the rim of his glass.

Haydon buried his hands deep into his jacket. “Why if you must know, Old Boy,” Alec resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “I just had the most fascinating debate with a student on the finer points of the division of constitutional powers.”

He nodded a greeting to Smiley, who nodded back. “Join us, Bill.”

The man smiled pleasantly, and sat himself in another armchair cluttered around the coffee table.

Mundt’s ears seemed to perk from the other side. “Not gushing about Fiedler again, are you Haydon?”

Leamas could practically smell his distaste from where he sat. His grip on the mug tightened unconsciously, and he ignored Smiley’s quick look of warning.

Haydon didn’t seem to notice. He looked back, flashing a million-dollar smile at the unimpressed German, all teeth. “Come on, Mundt,” he shook his head, “What on earth could you possibly have against the boy?”

Alec was painfully aware of Smiley’s eyes on him. He didn’t speak.

Mundt flipped the essay closed. “I have nothing ‘against the boy’, Haydon. I simply do not understand Headmaster Control’s insistence on pampering him.”

Alec’s knuckles whitened. Haydon’s face scrunched up almost comically. “Pampering him? Fiedler’s brilliant. He’s full-ride. He doesn’t need pampering.”

Mundt snorted. “He’s barely pulling a distinction average in second year global socio-politics,” he flipped open another essay, effectively ending the conversation, “I would hardly call that ‘brilliant’.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Haydon muttered under his breath, turning back Alec and Smiley.

“Anyway, plans for tonight Gentlemen?” Smiley shrugged, Alec simply muttering, _the usual._ Bill continued on cheerily. “Speaking of plans – our dear Professor Prideaux’s back next week and I thought a night in the pub might be in order.”

Alec raised an eyebrow, “Jim’s back already? Wasn’t he due back in December or some such?”

Haydon shook his head happily. “Practically _begged_ Control to let him cut his hiatus,” Smiley looked at Alec as if to say, _naturally_ with all the sarcasm there was. “Says the shoulder’s all but good to go.”

“Brilliant,” Smiley’s cheer finally seemed genuine. “What day’s he due back?”

“Wednesday. Half past seven at the Cheshire?” Smiley nodded and Alec drew another sip from his tea. “Free to join us Professor Mundt?”

The silence stretched indefinitely, eating up only by the repetitive shuffling of pen on paper.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Haydon didn’t bother hiding his smile, and Smiley kicked him under the coffee table. He didn’t even look guilty about it.

*

The recipe book used to belong to Emma. It was one of the few things that woman had the decency to leave him.

Alec snorted as he lidded the lamb simmering in pan. Who was he kidding – the woman never had any decency at all.

The herbs and spices were gentle against his nose and it smelt delicious, and he knew it would taste even better, especially after his only kind of panic attack because _dear god George, is lamb kosher?_

He sighed at the memory. He knew Jens’ parents were Jewish, but he didn’t know if Jens practiced. Was he even religious? Was he –

_Enough, Alec._

He checked on the measure strapped to the Verdot – 23 degrees Celsius. Checked the mousse cooling in the fridge – the chocolate was dark, flawless and according to the pretentious recipe book – _appropriately firm._

He checked the table – set up immaculately. Alec had shined the silverware he so resented – gifts from the in-laws, a glistening collection of desert spoons and soup spoons and too many types of forks. Who even _used_ that many forks?

Alec shook his free of his musings. He felt oddly proud of his handiwork. The dining room had been set up brilliantly. He’d even dug up the silver lined dinner plates.

He moved through the large flat to his bedroom, checking his appearance in ceiling to floor the mirror again. He fixed his lapels. Again. Alec had debated whether he’d overdone it – the three-course meal, the ridiculously overpriced wine, the _tidiness_. It had taken him two hours and a bottle of his best scotch as a bribe to Smiley, convincing help him make everything so immaculate. Dig up the portraits, straighten the portraits, clean the floorboards, stuff all the messy trinkets into random drawers until his flat looked liveable.

Alec adjusted his collar. Again. He’d chosen to forgo a tie.

He’d wooed Emma like this once. Thank bloody goodness Jens was nothing like that woman, but Alec just wanted to treat him. The younger man always seemed so exhausted, barely a moment to himself outside their time behind the locked door of Alec’s office. Was it really so wrong?

_Ding._

Alec ran a quick hand through his hair. The mushrooms were done.

*

Jens drew his coat tighter around him, sun-yellow scarf soft against his chin. His gloved hands were deep in his pockets, head hunched against the wind.

His palms felt oddly damp, nerves raising goose bumps along his arms. _Breathe._

He walked down the narrow pathway, Alec’s address on his breath. Jens glanced up, taken by the white street lights lining the road. He’d never been to this part of the city – the buildings broke into the darkening sky, all flat glass and modernist architecture.

A sleek car skid right past him, and the road seemed to tremble with a new onslaught of traffic.

Jens edged away from the road. _Of course_ he knew Alec must have been well off, he had a tenure at an established university.       

He kept his head up, sliding around a group of suited men walking towards him, briefcases and files in hand. He’d just never thought about _how_ well off he was.

_Breathe. It’s just nerves._

And if – _when –_ Alec came to his apartment block, tucked in between narrow one-sided streets and vandalised alleyways, housing an ancient rusted staircase and peeling wallpaper? And the inside – _God –_ it was home to them, sure, but it was small and cluttered and the kitchen was barely –

_Breathe._

Alec would probably have something simple prepared. The man was modest, if anything. He wasn’t about course meals and champagne and –

_Breathe._

The boutiques lining the road suddenly felt incredibly intimidating. All tailors and jewellers selling things he could scarcely afford on a month’s wages from the library.

He walked faster. Alec’s apartment block should be only a few minutes away.

_Breathe._

He sighed into the woolly scarf, taking comfort in the soft material. It had cost Christa a whole month’s allowance and sneaking behind his back to the little shop down the road. Jens vividly remembered that birthday – they had huddled together in the dark, the lights cut again for some such reason, when his little sister pushed a squished package into his hands, left-over Christmas wrap badly taped together.

He’d almost forgotten what day it was, but the yellow scarf tumbling into his lap had left him with some incredible, childish happiness.

Jens shook his head, freeing himself from the warming memory. _You’re just nervous._ He was, surely. He’d never been on a date before. Alec must’ve been on dozens.

He swallowed, moving a little quicker and breaking through another crowd. He manoeuvred himself carefully and quickly through the streets until he reached a quieter area.

Jens pulled his left hand from his pocket, dragging his sleeve down to glance at his watch. _7:25._ Damn it.

_I’m going to be late. One date – Jens, one date – way to screw it up._

If he walked any faster he’d be running. _Calm._ Alec wouldn’t mind if he was a few minutes late – surely. It had taken him an entire hour to get here and –

Oh.

Jens was about to walk right past them.

The lilies were stunning. Each was a curious star of young alabaster petals, curled languidly into a golden centre, housing thin and spritely green shoots. Spilling out of the bunch casually, the lilies seemed to eat up the sunflowers and daisies crowding around them. They seemed so out of place here, and for a moment, he saw little else.

Jens yearned to brush the pad of his thumb across the white expanse. 

He didn’t dare step closer lest the scent of honey fill his senses. White lilies boasted a sweet, floral smell that lingered. His mother used to pick them fresh from the garden, and he’d bury his laugh in her hair to breathe in the exquisite smell trapped between each soft lock.

Jens blinked. It did him no good to think about his mother now.

“Hello Dear,” a kindly voice broke his musings, startling him. The small woman looked terribly grandmotherly behind the flower stand. “Some flowers for a nice lady friend?” He blinked. “Sunflowers, maybe? Some roses? Nice, very fresh,” she nodded, her wrinkled palms open in invitation.

“Um, no, I-” he hesitated. He hadn’t taken anything with him. Jens couldn’t even think of what to bring. One sweep in a liquor shop by the university had allowed him a newfound appreciation for his lover’s immaculate collection of spirits. But flowers –

“Lilies, please.” They cost more than what was reasonable, and Alec would’ve been just as pleased with the sunflowers or the dandelions surely, but the lilies…

He handed the notes to the woman in exchange for the bouquet. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

*

The doorbell rang, loud, obnoxious.

Leamas exhaled slowly. The stuffed mushrooms were plated carefully in the kitchen, the lamb warm in the pan – soaked in jus and wine, the desert cooling in the fridge.

_Come on Alec. This is hardly your first date._

He inhaled and walked towards the door, the knob too cold against the palm of his hand.

Alec drew it open and was momentarily breathless.

Jens stood on the other side, hands wrapped around a dozen beautiful lilies the same colour, brimming brilliantly out of the bouquet. His lovely neck was wrapped in a sun-yellow scarf that spilled over his coat, and his cheeks were tinged pink. Alec wasn’t sure if it was from the cold.

Jens shifted on his feet uncertainly after a moment, teeth reddening the soft flesh of his lower lip. His hair was mussed by the wind, dark locks curling around his cheekbones and messily around his forehead. He looked stunning.

“Alec…” the younger man smiled, and his cheeks reddened a little more. “Can I – uh-”

“Oh,” Alec cleared his throat in embarrassment, quickly placing his hand on one of Jens’ arms and drawing him through the door, closing it behind him.

He drew the boy close to him and kissed him gently on the cheek, careful not to damage the flowers.

“Here, I’ll…” Jens handed him the flowers, “they’re beautiful.”

Jens beamed, and the nervousness seemed to flee from him. Were his eyes sparkling? _Shut up Leamas._

“Yes, well I thought you might-” Jens cleared his throat. “My mother used to…” he cleared his throat again, one thin hand running through his hair. “Yes.”

There was a moment of silence, and Alec tilted his head back and laughed. Genuinely, carelessly, watching as a grin stretched Jens’ lips.

“Come on.”

He led his _boyfriend? Lover?_ through the corridor.

“Should I take off my shoes?”

“No, it’s fine,” he reassured as the narrow space opened up into the large dining area. He fought to quell his nervousness when Jens didn’t say anything. Was it still too messy? “I’ll put these in water.”

He rushed to the kitchen, digging up the first vase he could think of and sliding the flowers inside. He filled it with water half-way, carefully carrying them back out and depositing them on the nearest flat service.

Jens was standing where he’d left him, gazing silently at the mahogany dining table, the neatly lined plates, the gleaming silverware, the candle dancing in the corner. His eyes seemed to travel from one portrait to another – wooden framed, contemprary, fancy things he’d bought for Emma such a long time ago.

“It’s… nice.” Jens seemed genuine, but something in his voice bothered Alec.

“Here,” he stretched out his arm. “I’ll hang up your coat.”

“Oh, yes,” Jens began quickly undoing the buttons, undoing his scarf from where it was snaked around his throat. Alec carefully handled both, taking a moment to appreciate the way Jens’ dinner jacket hugged his slight figure, pressed against the navy blue of his shirt. The first two buttons were undone, and Alec was treated to the sight of his lovely, pale skin.

“You look wonderful,” he manoeuvred back to the hallway for a moment and hung up the clothes.

“As do you, Professor.” He winked, and Alec couldn’t help taking him to into his arms for the briefest moment. Jens sighed wistfully and pecked his cheek, hands pressed into his chest but careful not to ruffle his clothes. 

He leaned in until his lips were pressed against the shell of Jens’ ear. “Sit, I’ll bring out the entrée.”

Jens pulled back. “Entrée. Right. Yes.” The boy smiled breathlessly at him, and Alec told himself it was just the nerves.

*

There were two types of spoons. Three types of forks. A set of knives. What the absolute –

_Breathe._

Alec was in the kitchen, preparing the _entrée._ Jens did not recall the last time he had an entrée. Which one of these utensils was he supposed to use? Was he supposed to use more than one? Was he supposed to _start_ with one and –

_Breathe._

He poked one of the forks with the tip of his finger. It felt heavy.

Was it actually made of silver? Made of _actual_ silver? He ran the pad of his finger across the cool surface. _It was._ Alec’s silverware must have cost more than his flat.

_Breathe._

_You knew he was well off._ Jens forced his foot to stop tapping against the timber. He just hadn’t realised _how well off._ The dining room was superb – it could have easily accommodated a table for six or eight, and perhaps once, it had. The modern portraits and antique frames and immaculate glass cabinets oozed class and _money_. From what Jens could see from the kitchen, it was all tiles and stainless steel and knives and wine glasses hanging precariously from a reach above Alec’s head. He could only imagine what the rest of the flat looked like.

Jens tried desperately to recall what his mother taught him about appropriate etiquette. _Not just a pretty French word, Darling,_ she used to say.

Elbows off the table. Start from the outside. And. And.

And that was it.   

What would happen when Alec realised he was absolutely hopeless? He felt so out of place, underdressed. God, he should’ve saved up, bought something else. Something nicer, that could even mildly compare to the brilliant, blatantly expensive, suit Alec had on.

Oh. He could feel the dread pooling at the base of his stomach. The flat was beautiful. Of course it was. It was spacious and modern and made Jens’ little cluttered home with his two-by-two kitchen look like a storage cabinet. _God. What’ll happen when he comes over? He’ll be so – so disgusted._

He pressed his damp palms against his trousers.

_Breathe._

Alec finally came back, a large plate of something steaming in on hand and two wine glasses balanced professionally between strong fingers.

He placed the plate in between them.

The mushrooms smelled delicious – herbs and spices and olive oil. The looked even better, fat and round and stuffed with cheese.

“That looks spectacular.”

Alec smiled at him as he placed a wine glass by his elbow. He vanished for another moment and came back with a green wine bottle.

He carefully prised open the bottle and poured half a glass for Jens, who could not help the feeling of sickness as he watched the golden-white liquid slosh around the crystalline glass.

Alec finally sat, before pulling the serving spoon from the plate and carefully slipping a mushroom onto Jens’ silver-lined plate, and then his own.

His Professor glanced at him, almost sensing his unease. “Is everything okay?”

Jens nodded shyly. “Yes, I’m just – this is new.”

Alec seemed to understand. “I hope you like it.”

Jens smiled back, and forced himself not to panic. Which _fork?_

*

The food was delicious.

Of course it was. Alec hid his frown behind the rim of his glass. The food was delicious. The wine was splendid – white for entrée, red for main. The flat neat, the atmosphere delightful, the conversation easy.

So why on earth did Jens look so uncomfortable?

He seemed carefree enough, lips twisted up in a smile. But there was an awful tension to his shoulders Alec hadn’t seen in the longest time. An awful uncertainty. A thousand awful thoughts spilled into his mind. George must have said something about Emma, about his children, about -

Alec placed his glass down carefully.

“Jens…”

“Hmm?” The boy looked up at him from under his eyelashes. The candle dancing wearily on the table painted his cheeks in amber shadows.

“What’s wrong?”

Alec could pinpoint the moment Jens froze, his movements suddenly so crisp. He gently lowered his fork back onto the plate, smiling uncertainly.

“Nothing’s wrong – this is lovely.”

Alec looked away for a moment. “Jens… If this is about George, you have to know…”

His student took a moment, biting his lower lip unconsciously. His words were quiet when he spoke, and Alec had to strain his ears. “I’m sorry.”

A pause.

“What?”

Jens blinked quickly, looking terribly embarrassed. “I’m not used to -used to _this._ I don’t really know…”

“What is it?” Alec spoke gently. Of all the things he could have messed up – this, why did it have to be _this_?

Jens didn’t reply, fingers absentmindedly trailing over the heavy silverware. His face was morphed in an unreadable expression.

The silverware – _the silverware. Oh._ The course meals, the fine china, the overpriced wine, the stuffy designer suit, the boutique art lining the walls. In how many ways could someone flaunt their money?

_Oh._

And Jens – all alone with his little job at the library and a little sister to support.

 _Oh,_ one look at Jens’ reddening cheeks, the low bow of his head. _Oh Alec, you utter fool._

Alec’s voice was strained with a curious kind of desperation, “I didn’t mean to be pompous,” but his laugh was weak.

Jens looked up quickly, looking owlish and sorry all at once. “I’m sorry I’m being ridiculous-”

“Will you stop apologising?” He slid his palm carefully across the table, fingers curling into the delicate hand which fit so wonderfully in his. “This isn’t – this isn’t…” he groaned, running his free hand through his hair. Jens’ lips perked up at the edges. “I bribed George with a bottle of scotch to help my dig up those horrid things,” he carelessly motioned to the paintings. “And the silverware and the plates and the bloody candles-”

Jens’ hand grew heavier in his own. “What?”

The word was twisted with surprised, uncertainty, it pulled at Alec’s heart. “They were wedding gifts, Jens. I haven’t unboxed them in years.”

The quiet exhale breath made him nervous.

“You… you did that for me?”

It may have been a whisper. Alec nodded quickly, “I’m so sorry, Love, I just wanted to – I wanted to make it special. I’ve never,” he cleared his throat. Jens’ eyes burned into him. “I’ve never done this with – with someone like you.” Alec felt lame clearly his throat so often, tripping over his words like a teenage girl. “I don’t mean that you’re not – that you _are –_ I mean someone genuine. Not some sorority girl.”

“Alec…” the boy swallowed. “Alec, you ridiculous man.”

In a moment, the professor had an armful of narrow waist as his student drew him close with two hands at his jaw and kissed him. Alec let his eyes flutter shut.

It was a touch awkward, stretched around the table, but he would not have changed it for the world.

When he no longer felt the soft, lovely mouth against his own, he opened his eyes. Jens was blushing a quiet pink, the corners of his eyes pushed up by a little crescent-moon smile.

“How about dessert?”

The delighted laugh might have filled his heart with air for how light he suddenly felt.

*

Jens was stretched out like a cat, lithe figure moulding into the couch wonderfully, head pillowed comfortably on the arm. His feet were pillowed on Alec’s lap.

Alec sat at the other end, fingers playing with the jut of his lover’s ankles. On the coffee table, two plates of chocolate mousse scraped clean. Alec decided he quite liked how Jens tasted after chocolate, all bitter-sweet and giggly.

“Come on,” he nudged those feet from his legs and stood carefully. Jens blinked up at him curiously, watching as Alec moved to the cabinet with the antique gramophone. He fiddled with it until the quiet boom of trumpets and piano began to spill from the speaker.

Turning back, he leaned over and offered a hand to Jens, “Dance with me.”

“I didn’t take you for a Sinatra man,” Jens replied as he inched himself up.

The boy smiled, flitting his delicate hand in a broad palm. Alec gently pulled him up and right into his chest. He fitted one hand at that lovely waist, weaving his free set of fingers perfectly through the younger man’s. Alec eased himself against the boy, feeling warm as a gentle grip rest carefully on his hip.

Jens’ head was pillowed on his collarbone, soft hair tickling his cheek as they began to move.

Alec leaned down, lips at the shell of one pale ear. “I’ve got you… under my skin.” He pressed a quick kiss into a warm cheek. “I’ve got you… deep in the heart of me.”

Jens smiled into his shirt as Alec quietly mouthed the words. “I didn’t know you sang.”

He laughed between lyrics, “I don’t.”

They moved carefully around the table. “I tried so… not to give in.”

Jens shivered against him, fingers tightening around his own.

“I said to myself this affair will never go so well…” They moved in a careful circle, Jens’ oxfords pressing uncertainly against Alec’s. The professor sang off-beat, out-of-tune, with a comic flair, but Jens looked at him as if his tongue was dipped in gold.

“But why should I try to resist...” A pause. He dipped the boy, huffing with laughter as Jens scrambled to hold on, crying out _Alec_ between breaths.

The music went on like the bell-beat of bird wings in hot summer air. Between every break in his impromptu singing, Jens would steal a kiss and Alec would be all too obliging.

The might have danced for an hour, two, Alec lost in the quiet sway of a lithe body pressed wonderfully against him.

“Stay the night,” he murmured into the hollow of a sweet throat.

“Okay,” Jens murmured back into his lips.

*

Alec came to slowly, the cotton sheets soft against his bare skin, a naked body pressed into his chest.

He drew his head back, blinking the blurriness from the corners of his eyes. His vision was filled with a mess of brown locks.

“Ow,” he mouthed quietly, arm pricking with numbness where it was trapped under Jens.

A quiet whine, “Professor…” Jens shifted slightly, but remained commandeering Alec’s arm, “stop moving.”

He pressed a kiss into the back of the boy’s head. “I can’t feel my arm, Love.”

“So? I can.” Alec felt the barest weight of thin fingers weaving through his own, arm bending at the elbow as Jens pulled it to his mouth and lay butterfly kisses along his coarse fingertips.

Alec laughed, nails of his freehand biting into Jens’ ribs.

“Fine – fine,” he conceded, arching his body off the bed so Alec could draw back his arm.

Jens rolled over to face him as he drew his stolen arm back into his chest, flexing life back into his fingers. His legs were chaotically tangled in the sheets, a quiet blush working its way down his navel.

They lay side by side for a long moment. “Breakfast?”

Jens made a priceless sound. “All we’ve done is _eat,_ Alec.”

He huffed. “No _all,_ ” the boy blushed, and Alec laughed into the pillow. He stared at Jens for a minute. “I like this.”

“Hmm?” Jens raised an eyebrow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as a yawn ate up his words.

“You. Staying. It’s nice.”

A small smile flitted across Jens’ lips as he sat up. Alec watched the ribs moving in chest as Jens leaned over him, two thin hands pressing against his shoulders, two slender legs bracketing his hips.

Jens pushed him into the bed, Alec’s hands crawling up the neat lines of his back, the sheets falling away as Jens pressed into him so completely. Oh, what a lovely sight, Alec thought.

The boy’s voice was a quiet whisper. “I have to finish Mundt’s assignment.”

Alec pinched him. “That’s the most erotic thing you possibly could have said.”

Jens winked without shame. “He’s going to have my head.” He looked contemplative, “Maybe it will make Professor Smiley pity me.”

Alec snorted, smoothing his hands down his hips, thumbs teasing the white flesh leading to his thighs. “He’ll get over it.” Jens’ smile was a little more uncertain.

“Hey,” curling his fingers into the soft flesh. “Don’t worry about George. Worry about Mundt and the assignments and Christa. I’ll take care of it,”

“I know…” he massaged his thumbs into Alec’s shoulders, and without another moment, slipped off the older man.

Alec felt bereft, a low whine stretching his lips as he watched Jens walk naked to the old wardrobe, pearl skin charming in the dim light. He looked on curiously as the boy drew the doors open, burying the top half of his body so only his slim legs were visible.

He shuffled around for a few minutes before drawing back, Alec’s white nightgown hiding his bare shoulders, flitting against the floor, fluid like water against his ankles. It was loose enough to show the dip of his chest leading down from sharp collarbones, transparent enough for Alec to enjoy.

“You’re going to be the death of me!” He called out after his retreating student. He certainly was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jens giggled delightfully, cheeks pink. Alec took a moment to watch him stirring the tea into the pot, movements easy and steady. There could be nothing lovelier than this on a Sunday Morning, he decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk anymore but it's going somewhere i swear it's just taking a lil while to get there

“It’s stale.”

Alec saw Jens lift his head from where the water boiled in the kettle. The professor raised the loaf of bread up to eye-level and gave it an unsatisfying _squish_.

Jens smiled, pulling two mugs from the cupboard. He sauntered over to his professor, nightgown slipping around his shoulders. Alec watched in curiosity as those delicate fingers pulled the stale bread from his hands. Jens pressed experimentally into the edges.

“Baking tray?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to bake stale bread?”

“Don’t be ridiculous Professor,” Alec rolled his eyes, turning from the boy to dig up a _baking tray._ He heard Jens shuffling behind him as he pulled the tray from the mess that was the cupboard beneath his sink.

It landed on the marble counter with a clank. Beside it, Jens carefully rested a jug of water. Alec stepped behind the boy, bowing to rest his chin on a slender shoulder.

Jens placed the bread in the long tray, and proceeded to –

“You’re drowning it.”

A quiet sigh. “I’m covering it.”

“No. No you’re – oh, now you’ve done it. Drowned.”

Jens elbowed him. “Heat the oven for me?”

“Temperature?”

Jens emptied the rest of the water into the sink. “A hundred and sixty Celsius?”

Alec did as he was told, stepping back cautiously as Jens carefully tucked the tray into the oven and closed the door.

“You’re baking stale bread.”

“Why don’t you prepare the rest of breakfast, dear?” Alec rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Sir.”

Jens giggled delightfully, cheeks pink. Alec took a moment to watch him stirring the tea into the pot, movements easy and steady.  There could be nothing lovelier than this on a Sunday Morning, he decided.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Alec setting the fruits and cheeses and all sorts of delightful things across the table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made so much effort.

The pot landed by his elbow. Jens looked up at him with those wide eyes. Alec wondered how long he could get lost in them for. He briefly recalled the first time Jens had looked at him from beneath those devilishly long eyelashes, all those months ago. Christ, the boy had made him a sap if nothing else.

He blinked.

“…Alec?”

He must have been staring. His student raised a curious eyebrow, stuttering when Alec pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

“Yes, Love?”

He turned back to the table as Jens cleared his throat. A smile stretched Alec’s mouth.

A moment later, the younger man was drawing open the oven door and pulling out the tray with mitted hands. The delightful smell of fresh baked bread filled Alec’s senses. He made a noise of surprise, closing the over door after Jens.

Jens prised off a piece of the hot bread with thin fingers. Alec’s eyes widened.

The inside was white and fluffy, the outside crisp, as if the loaf had just been baked. Jens turned to him, pressing the piece into his lips. He blew on it a cooling breath before chewing slowly, feeling the bread come apart in his mouth.

“That’s…”

Jens nodded happily. “Almost fresh.”

He spoke around the small bite. “How did you know how to do that?”

Jens pulled the rest of the loaf onto a cutting board. The knife slid through easily, rings of bread piled onto a plate.

“My mother.” They sat at the table, Alec’s interest diverted from the food.

“Your mother?”

Jens looked away for a moment. “Fresh bread wasn’t always so easy to get, especially in Munich. After the war most of the small businesses closed down, the groceries, the bakeries. A shortage of yeast for the war effort. It was rarely rationed out to the people.” Alec poured tea into both mugs, remaining silent. “Even in Canada, we didn’t have very much. Mother used to do all sorts of delightfully odd things to give Christa and I some semblance of normal.”

Alec wasn’t sure what to say. Jens spoke easily enough but every word seemed to pull at a different heart string.

“You mother sounds like a wonderful woman.”

The younger man smiled at him genuinely. A little sadly. “She was.” A pause. “She would have liked you.”

There was something about those words. The nonchalance with which Jens spoke them as he speared a cube of cheese with his fork. It filled him with an odd feeling. A curious, warm feeling. A feeling which blurred the edges of his vision and twisted his insides.

“Oh.” Jens turned to him as he spoke, hiding his expression behind the cup of tea. Alec pulled his own drink towards him. For a single, terrible moment, he recalled meeting Emma’s haughty mother. The cruel, hawk-eyed woman who was the devil unto himself. His throat felt dry. “Do you look like her?”

Jens paused for a moment, as if Alec’s question had surprised him. “I suppose so…” he trailed off. _Alec, you fool. Stop. Speaking._ “I have photographs at home. You could have a look sometime.” A blush crawled down the delicate lines of Jens’ throat. “If you like.”

Alec’s smile must have been blinding.

*

Mundt was watching him with those terrible, terrible hawk-eyes of his.

How many men had withered to naught beneath that burning gaze, Jens wondered? How many children had cried in fear as those pale lips twisted down and down, until a scowl pulled the lines from under Mundt’s eyes? How many–

“Fiedler, this level of incompetence on a Monday morning is quite jarring, even for you.”

Alas, Jens forced his fingers to loosen from around his pen, too many to count.

He tilted his chin up, drawing his eyes from the notes. “Sir?”

Mundt sighed. It was a weary, drawn out thing that made him feel like an insect beneath the man’s impeccably polished heals.

“Tell me, Fiedler-” Jens didn’t roll his eyes. It had taken much practice. “What does this unit concern?”

Jens leaned back a little in his chair. It creaked too loudly. From the corner of his eye, the clock ticked another second closer to four.

“The relationship between political globalisation and social power.”

Mundt’s eyes narrowed. His coffee was hot and untouched by his elbow where swirls of steam began to rise up to evoke what seemed to be ominous foreshadowing.

“Social power, Fiedler?”

“Socio-economic power, Sir,” he corrected.

“Fascinating.”

And again, he ducked his head down to Jens’ essay, red pen fluid and critical. Jens bit his tongue. It must have been hours since he sat down at three, but the clock happily mocked him: _3:52._

He went back to his notes.

“Fiedler.”

“…Yes, Professor?”

“Define socioeconomics for me.”

For a moment, Jens imagined the delight that would implode in his chest if Mundt’s coffee ended up in his lap.

“It’s the study of how economic activity is shaped by social and societal processes, Sir.”

Silence.

It was a moment before Mundt muttered.

“Fascinating.”

Jens drew in a quiet breath. _Don’t be an idiot. Don’t be –_

“Fascinating, Sir?”

Mundt paused, glanced up quickly as if he hadn’t expected Jens to speak. He raised one critical eyebrow.

“Your essay does not show the basic understanding that even _you_ must have, Fiedler.”

Jens blinked. He’d spent days on that essay. Hours of research, consultation, synthesis. Hours of picking apart all the nuanced facets of Russia’s ties to the global economy and –

“I’m sorry?”

That was a sneer if Jens had ever seen one. He fisted his free hand in his lap, nails biting angrily into his palm. After all these weeks, Mundt hadn’t changed a touch. Jens wondered if he could have possibly gotten more unpleasant. He might have, over the weekend. Maybe he hadn’t made enough infants cry to get a good night’s sleep.

“Your essay, Fiedler.” Mundt put his pen down. Jens didn’t look at the paper as his professor slid it across the table. “Do it again.”

Jens was silent for a long moment. Mundt took a sip of his coffee. His tongue snaked out from between his lips to lick the dark smudge at the corner of his mouth.

 _Reptile,_ Jens thought vehemently. “Again, Pro-”

“Are you just going to parrot everything I say Fiedler?” Jens didn’t respond. “The essay is poor. If you want to pass this unit, you will do it again.”

Jens wasn’t the type to wish terrible things on people. On most people, it turned out.

“What would you like me to change, Professor?”

The mug _thudded_ heavily on the timber. “All of it.”

“Professor-”

“This is not salvageable, Fiedler.”

Jens was quiet.

“You fail to grasp the niche economic framework between Russia and the global economy at its most basic. The topic is far too elaborate-”

“But _you_ approved the topic, Sir, I’ve already-”

“I approved the topic, _Fiedler_ , because I thought you were competent enough to handle it in three thousand words.” A pause. “Do it again, and pick something simpler.”

Jens blinked the fogginess from his vision quickly, looking down at essay. He nodded mutely, grabbing the papers and slotting them between the pages of his notebook.

“I want it on my desk by Friday, Fiedler. I won’t be this lenient next time.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jens muttered in response, drawing his bag over one shoulder.

The chair creaked loudly as he stood. Mundt didn’t look up, already flitting through another set of papers, dismissing Jens with a careless wave of his hand. Jens forced himself to take steady steps to the door, barely noticing they’d gone five minutes overtime.

He walked the corridors absentmindedly. They were blessedly sparse, a few students and professors milling about on the staircase and out on the pitch.

Jens swallowed a frustrated sigh as he flicked through the essay. Half-useful barely legible critiques dressed up as biting insults and commentary on his _growing incompetence._

The paper wrinkled in his hands, the delighted feeling offset by his weekend with Alec quickly waning.  He rubbed two fingers into his temple. He had about forty minutes left before Smiley’s lecture –

A door opened to one side of the corridor. Jens looked up, snatched from his musings as a tall woman slipped quietly from – it was Professor’s Haydon’s office.

Her bright eyes found Jens, hair dishevelled and jacket buttoned unevenly. Jens blinked, an odd feeling of familiarity settling in his chest. The woman stared at him for a moment, and he fought desperately to push the rising blush from his cheeks. It didn’t take more than her smudged lipstick to figure out what she’d been doing there. With Professor Haydon.

She smiled, but her eyes had a hawk-like squint to them, reminding him uncomfortably of Mundt.

Jens forced an awkward smile back and hurried past a little faster.

*

“Alec!”

George made a beeline to his liquor cabinet. Alec rolled his eyes, pushing aside the last of the essays.

“Really George? It’s Monday.”

His friend hummed contentedly, pulling the bottle of Steinhager from the glass shelf.

“I’ve had an awfully dry weekend Alec,” George turned back to him as Alec drew two tumblers from his drawer. “Unlike you it seems.”

Alec glanced at his office door. Smiley had remembered to lock it on his way in.

“George…”

“I’m not here to chastise you Alec,” he said in that chastising tone of his, pouring a generous finger into the glass.

Alec drew his own glass onto the coaster. “He doesn’t drink very much.”

George paused. “Fiedler doesn’t drink?”

“No. Well, I don’t think he’s had a drink before Friday.”

“Huh.” George took a slow sip, “but he smokes?”

Alec’s eyes flickered to the ashtray which found its new home at the corner of his desk. “I know. It’s odd.”

George put his glass down, “What did you end up doing over the weekend anyway?”

Alec pointedly took a long sip.

“Alec.”

A pause.

“He didn’t stay with you over the weekend, did he?”

“It’s not what you think.”

His friend scoffed. “Your young beautiful partner spends the weekend sleeping in your bed. Don’t tell me you braided each other’s hair and gossiped about boys?”

George said it innocently enough, but Alec had to force the frustration back down his throat.

“You promised, George.”

The older man ran a long finger around the rim.

“We didn’t-” George held him with a glare of his own. “We didn’t _just –_ it’s not like that. You said you wouldn’t do that, George.”

“Do what, Alec?”

“ _That_ ,” he waved a hand at his friend’s furrowed brow. “That judgemental thing you do with your eyes and your chin where you’re all-” George raised an eyebrow. “That! That right there. You said you’d be understanding.”

A sigh. “Alright Alec. Tell me about your weekend. Help me understand it better. It might make looking Fiedler in the eye a little easier.”

“You don’t have to react-”

“My best friend and my best student are fucking. How do you expect me to react?”

Sometimes, Alec thought as he downed the rest of his drink, there was no winning with George Smiley. Sometimes, George Smiley just had to be absolutely bloody right. And sometimes, Alec had to reconcile with his friend’s inability to see anything beyond black and white.

“We talked. We went for walks. We went to dinner. We watched a few black and whites.” Alec kept all the parts with the kissing to himself. “He told me about Christa. It was nice.”

George had that critical look again. He never really lost it, did he? “Have you told him about-”

“No.”

George took another sip.

“No, George. I haven’t.”

“Are you going to?”

Alec licked his lips. They suddenly felt so dry.

“When the time is right.”

“When he’s invested too much to leave?”

Sometimes, Alec thought, he really wanted to hit his friend. He didn’t respond.

“Alec…”

“I don’t need another lecture George.”

“I’m not-”

_Knock knock knock._

George paused midway, Alec’s eyes flickering to his watch. 7:35. Jens.

“George…”

The man in question rolled his eyes as he stood, walking to the door. “I’ll be _good,_ Alec.”

Alec tried to smother the feeling of unease. He hated subjecting Jens to his best friend. George Smiley could be the unprecedented savage when he felt someone was threatening the people he cared about. He poured himself another shot as George pulled the door open.

Jens’ lovely face twisted in surprise. Alec watched from over George’s shoulder as the boy bowed his head shyly, gripping something to his chest.

“Prof- Professor Smiley. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you and Professor Leamas were uh-”

He heard George sigh, watched the line of his shoulders tense. “Not a problem, Fiedler.”

“I’ll just come back-”

“No.” Alec choked on his drink. “Come in.”

“Uh…”

“I insist, Jens.”

_Fuck you, George._

Jens stepped inside, George closing the door behind him with a thud of finality.

The boy’s eyes immediately found him, and Alec tried to smile reassuringly. Jens did not look reassured.

“Have a seat, Fiedler,” Smiley motioned to an empty chair beside his own, as if it was his bloody office.

“Right.”

The boy walked slowly, depositing his bag where he had a thousand times before, sitting in that same chair.

George twisted his seat to face Jens, his smile loud and artificial.

Oh, _to hell with it._ Alec stood up. If George had a problem, George would get over his problem.

Jens looked at him as he made his way around the desk, coming up behind the boy and burying a kiss in his hair. He left his hands at those slender shoulders, creasing the perfectly ironed shirt, George’s glare burning a hole in his side.

“Prof – Alec!” Jens was blushing furiously, in that adorable, naïve way of his. His eyes flickered between the two men.

“Jens,” Alec pressed himself to the back of the boy’s chair, fingers firm at the knots in his neck. “I’ve missed you.”

The boy kept his eyes on George as his replied. “Alec,” he spoke so softly, “should we be-”

“Yes, Jens, we should be. Because George promised he wouldn’t be such a judgemental son of a-”

“Judgemental?” George stood up, voice a harsh whisper. Jens’ intake of breath was loud in the frightfully silent office. “You’re fucking your student!”

For a moment, Alec forgot about the boy under his hands. “You said you understood! You said you-”

“Christ Alec, it’s one thing to be having some sordid affair and another to be keeping him over on weekends as your personal-”

“Screw you George.” The man quietened. Alec had forgotten the last time he was this furious. “I’ve explained this to you.”

“You’ve explained nothing!” George spread his arms in disbelief. “You explained a crush! Infatuation I hoped would fade!”

“It’s not going to.”

George shook his head. “Alec…”

But he was too stubborn. “I won’t have the same argument with you every single time, George.”

Jens stood before George could reply. The movement shook the chair. Both men glanced at him, “Maybe I should leave…”

“Sit.” George’s command was hard. Alec snorted.

“You don’t get to do that George.”

“Do what?”

“You don’t get to tell him what to do like he’s your pet.”

“No. Not _my_ pet.” The silence might have shattered his eardrums. George shook his head when Alec didn’t reply, as if it were an invitation to continue. “He thinks he’s in love with you.”

Jens choked.

 _What?_ Alec’s head snapped towards him, watching the way his mouth twisted in horror. The boy looked at George with such unassuming betrayal.

_He thinks he’s in love with you._

_He thinks he’s –_

“What?”

“Tell him Jens.” Jens had paled dramatically, the blood seeping from his cheeks with a hitch of breath. George’s voice was hard. “Tell him what you told me.”

But the boy wouldn’t look at him. “I need to leave.” Jens’ hands were uncertain as he collected his bag and hugged the textbooks tight to his chest.

“Jens,” his hand found the boy’s shoulder, “what-”

“Alec please, just-”

“Tell him Jens,” George repeated, “tell him what you told me.”

Jens glanced up at him with a most indiscernible expression. Alec felt the tremors sliding right across his thin frame. _In love with you. He thinks he’s in love with you._

“Tell him how you _cried_ in my office Jens,” George was vicious and cruel and his words were mocking as he twisted the knife. Jens jerked helplessly but Alec couldn’t let him go. “How you begged me to believe it wasn’t about his money, how you ran away when I confronted you, how you-”

“Enough!”

A sound thrumming began at Alec’s temples. He spared a moment to glare at George because what in the _hell_ was the man thinking?

But the man wouldn’t have it.

“Maybe you should tell him what you think about his children.”

Alec could feel the lines appear on his forehead. He hadn’t told Jens about his -

Oh.

 

_Oh._

Jens knew.

Alec glanced down. Jens’ eyes were glistening. Jens _knew_.

“Jens…” He spoke so softly. “You know?”

The boy held his eyes. Alec could barely see past his blurred vision. He felt thin fingers latch onto his sleeve, desperate words flitting through red lips.

“Alec it’s not – I just wanted to wait for you to – for you to tell me…”

He sounded so frightened. Alec felt numb. He looked over at George for the longest moment without saying anything. Sometimes, Alec thought, George Smiley could be a right bastard.

“Alec?” That sweet voice broke through his musings. He focused on Jens again, who looked so uncertain some part of Alec thought he may faint. “Alec, I’m sorry – I’m so sorry – I – I just wanted you to be comfortable enough to-”

“Jens,” he forced George out of his mind for the briefest moment. Alec pressed his fingers gently into Jens’ jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Let’s talk later okay?”

Alec needed to say it, and hated himself for saying it, because Jens looked like part of the world had collapsed. His foot stuttered nervously against the carpet as he took a step back, looking anywhere but Alec’s eyes.

“Okay. Okay I’m-” his voice broke at the end, and he cleared his throat in embarrassment. Hugging the textbooks to his chest, he looked terribly small. Alec blinked his own tears away. “I’m going to go.”

Jens left a terrible silence in his wake.

Alec turned to his friend. There was nothing to negotiate with George anymore.

“I’m going to kill you.”

George snorted, and then he laughed.

He _laughed_.

Alec was a good two seconds away from wrapping his hands around his best friend’s throat, and his best friend was laughing good naturedly.

He stalked forward in quick strides, “What the fuck, George? What the absolute-”

“Alec,” he was breathless as Alec fisted his hands in his jacket, “Alec calm down-”

“Calm down? Calm _down_?”

The man was on his toes. “Alec-”

“What the fuck are you laughing about, Smiley? You think that was funny? That was-”

“I know – I’m sorry.”

“You’re- you’re-  you’re what?” A pause.

“I’m sorry.”

Alec’s grip loosened. “What?”

George sighed. Oh, how much more terrible was this headache going to get?

“You were never going to tell him, Alec.”

“George…”

The older man held his hands up innocently. It was laughable. “He was too afraid to tell you.”

Alec blinked. He blinked again, careful to note how George’s angry features eased themselves to his usual friendliness. The lines around his eyes softened, his mouth lax. Oh George, he thought for a long, hard moment, _George you son of a bitch_.

“You did that so he would know? So – so I would know that he knew?”

The man nodded happily. Alec still debated throttling his oldest friend.

“And so he could tell you.”

The silence stretched. But Jens hadn’t told him. Smiley shoed words into his mouth.

“Alec…”

He didn’t say a thing, slowly releasing his friend.

“Alec.”

“Fuck you, Smiley.”

He turned around, reaching for the gin. Behind him, George’s sigh stretched on for miles.

“You need to have these things in the open, Alec.”

He poured a shot into the glass, watching the clear liquid lick up the sides. _Take a breath,_ Alec reminded himself. Because of course Smiley had conjured the most dramatic, convoluted plan so he could shoe-horn his way into Alec’s business. _Take a breath._

“I get to decide when that happens. _We_ get to decide, George.” _Be civil,_ he noted. _He only means well._ “Jens and I. Not you. Not by yelling at me and not by yelling at him!”

He tipped his head back and drank. George made himself comfortable in his usual chair as Alec turned around.

“But now you know he loves you.”

Alec glared. “I-”

“Doubted.” George looked at him sadly. “You always doubt Alec. You’ve doubted ever since Emma. Now you know. You saw how he reacted. You know.”

He set the glass down.

“You told him about my children, George.”

“You weren’t going to.”

“Who gave you the right? It wasn’t your secret to tell.” George shook his head, and Alec suddenly felt so exhausted. He needed to talk to Jens.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“And he stayed.”

Alec’s throat was dry. George told Jens about his children, and Jens stayed. Jens stayed. Jens… loved him. George had prepared this terrible, convoluted test and Jens had passed.

He paused for a minute. One part of him still wanted to throttle George because the look of absolute devastation in Jens’ eyes wasn’t something Alec was likely to ever forget. The other part of him knew that Jens loved him.

Jens loved him.

He was sure it wasn’t the gin that thrilled the giddy feeling through his bones.

“I still hate you, Smiley.”

His friend’s laughter was welcome.

*

Jens stretched his smile as far as it would go for Christa.

“Tell me all about it.”

He pulled her backpack into his lap and let her squish herself into the seat beside him. The bus groaned and stuttered over the potholes as Christa smooshed her cheek into his shoulder.

“Jens it was _amazing_. We did rope climbing Jens! Like, like where you climb up the ropes! Anyway I got there first, way faster than Wilhelm, ‘cause Willy’s a slug, Jens, you remember Willy don’t you Jens? Willy the Slug?”

He pushed a few loose hairs from her mouth before she swallowed them. “You shouldn’t be unkind to your friends, Christa.”

“Jens!” That petulant whine made him smile for real. “You’re ruining my story!”

“Sorry, sorry – yes, I remember Willy the Slug.”

“Well _anyway_ …”

In those thirty minutes, Jens leaned back into the leather seat, pushing away the anxieties and stress of his terrible day. He lost himself in Christa’s animated story, intervening every once in a while so his mind wouldn’t wonder to Mundt or the woman from Haydon’s office or Smiley or Alec.

Alec.

He tried desperately to blink the memory away. Every time something went right, something else had to go so terribly wrong in its place. Jens had come to terms with his feelings for the older man, after that wonderful weekend had put a glimmer in his eyes. But Alec… how would Alec react? Knowing Jens had fallen in love with him like some lovesick schoolgirl after a few months of secret kisses and smiles and -

Christa’s words were beginning to slur with sleep. She grew heavier against him.

“Mmm, Christa don’t sleep now. You’re too big to carry.”

She snorted, drooling all over his sleeve. Jens rolled his eyes, elbowing her half-heartedly.

“Pssh,” she slapped his shoulder with a little hand, “you could take someone’s eye out with that thing Jens.”

He shrugged in an exaggerated movement, shoulder pushing against her cheek.

“Jens!”

Her breathless giggles soothed him, and for a little while, it felt like something wasn’t falling apart.

*

Tuesday went by so terribly slowly. Alec lost count of how many times he glanced up at the clock.

And then, after hours and hours of lectures and classes and coffee and absentmindedly figuring out what he would say to Jens – there was a knock. A gentle knock made by a pale fist and delicate fingers Alec had spent hours mapping and kissing and holding. He felt almost excited as he twisted the bronze knob.

He didn’t give the boy a chance to breath. In a smooth movement, Alec pulled Jens inside by the hand and backed him against the door, taking a second to lock it.

Jens blinked up at him with those delightfully dark eyes, and –

“Ale- nnnngh,”

Alec gripped the boy’s wrists and pinned them by his head, one leg pressing between two thighs. He pushed into Jens until their chests touched, until he lost himself in the feel of that soft mouth. Jens kissed him back desperately, drawing him closer with a flick of his tongue, eyelashes fluttering against Alec’s cheek as he stole the breath from his lungs. Jens tasted like coffee and sugar and Alec felt the loveliest sounds vibrate through his throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry Smiley-”

“It’s okay – Professor, Alec-Alec- _Alec_ ,” Jens murmured, resting his head on the older man’s shoulder. “I should have told you I knew.”

“No,” he pulled back, shaking his head, “no this isn’t on you. I should have been honest.”

“It’s not any easy thing to be honest about.”

Alec took a moment, bending down, pushing his forehead against Jens’.

“Did you mean it?”

Jens might have missed the words for how quietly Alec whispered them.

“Did – did you mean what you told George?”

The boy slumped visibly against the door, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He looked away, and Alec’s heart stuttered.

“Alec...”

“Jens, you don’t have to.”

“Yes.”

Jens finally looked up at him. The openness in his eyes startled Alec, his fingers loosening from around those delicate wrists.

“Yes. I meant it Alec.” The words came in a rush, spilling like some hidden secret vying to be told, “I meant it and it terrifies me because you’re you and I’m me and not in a thousand years did I expect this is how I would end up feeling.”

He wasn’t sure what to say.

“I love you, Alec. I love every wonderful, stubborn part of you and I think about you more than I should and not enough and I can be childish and ridiculous and egotistical and I want to be beside you as long as you’ll have me.”

“…Oh.”

The moment stretched. And stretched. And Alec saw no better course of action than to draw the boy into his chest and smother his delighted laughter into his hair. His arms around those slender shoulders, fingers tangled in an ironed blazer. This was joy, Alec knew. It was an innocent wonderful joy, not like Emma. He was never enough for Emma, never enough for her dramatic proclamations of love, never enough for her expectations and her standards. He felt like he could be everything to Jens.

“Jens, I-”

“Don’t.”

The boy was breathless, pulling back from the embrace, hands frightfully tense on Alec’s arms.

“Don’t say it, Alec. Not – not because I have.”

“Jens, I’m not saying it because-”

“You _are_ , Alec. You are. Please don’t. Just-” Jens must have melted into his arms. What was the strange warmth in his chest? “I’ll wait. Alec. Take all the time you need, and I’ll wait.”

“Okay.” Alec whispered. “Okay.”

And for a little while, it was.

*

The knife slid easily through the russet potatoes, thudding firmly against the worn chopping board.

Jens bit his lip as he continued to cube the vegetables. He’d have to make a start on Mundt’s essay if he was going to finish it any time before Friday.

“Jens!” He glanced over his shoulder. Christa stood in her spotted pyjamas, arms crossed over her chest as she glared at his back.

“Hmmm?” he hummed absentmindedly, sliding the potatoes into the pot with the garlic and oregano.

“You promised you’d help me with my homework.”

He turned back to his unfinished soup, adding a pinch of salt. “You went to bed, Schnucki.”

“You were supposed to wake me up,” she came up behind him, pressing her forehead into his back. He smiled quietly, nudging her out of the way.

He bent down and pulled a can of vegetable broth from the cupboard. “Pass me the sour cream?”

Christa made an excited sound as she pushed past him to the fridge. “We’re having sour cream?”

“Mhmm. A treat for coming back in one piece from camp.”

The almost empty plastic pot landed next to his elbow. Jens frowned. How much of this week’s wages could he spare for another?

“I’ll set up the table!”

He’d have to get a pot for when Alec came over. How – how would he introduce him to Christa? Jens paused. _Alec, this is my little sister Christa. She is an infuriating Maus and I spend more money on her medication than I do on food. Christa, this is Alec, my Economics professor who I desperately love and am sleeping with. He has two children._

_Shut up, Jens._

What would he even make the other man? Jens could hardly make potato soup when Alec served him three courses. _Chocolate mousse._ The amount of fresh cream in the dessert alone made Jens’ head spin. He’d never had anything so delectable.

He turned the heat on high and lidded the pot, turning back to the sour cream. He could imagine it now; Alec strutting over to the dairy stalls in the farmer’s market. Paying more than Jens’ earned in a week for a gallon of delightfully fresh milk and broken pieces of chocolate – the kind you had to weigh with kitchen scales because you bought them by the hundred grams.

The image made his stomach churn. He could see Alec tucking the paper bags and a glass bottle under his arm, walking around the stalls, picking large tomatoes off the vines, pointing at the fattest Kielbasa hanging from the line.

 _Alec doesn’t care about that._ He bent back to the cupboard, digging around for a few moments. It was the last can of evaporated milk.

 _But I’m –_ he opened the can, careful not to cut his fingers – _does it matter that we can’t afford –_

He mixed half the can with the sour cream, resealing the other half and tucking it on the top shelf in the fridge. _It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can spare anymore on all these privileges._

A sudden thought came to him. “Mm, Christa?”

“Ja?”

“How many tablets do you have left?”

A sigh. “Uh. Half a dozen I think?”

“You think?”

A groan. “I’ll go _check_.”

“Thank you,” he added a tablespoon of flour to his mix and brought it to rest by the pot. Pulling the lid off, he carefully ladled some of the hot broth into the bowl.

He had begun to blend with the wire whisk when Christa came back. The guilty shuffling of her feet was going to give him a headache, he knew. What he would have done for cigarette in that moment.

“Two.”

He paused for a minute, swallowing his sigh. “Two?” He gently stirred the thickened mix into the soup.

“Two.”

He returned the lid on the pot and lowered the heat a touch. “Dinner will be twenty minutes.”  

“Jens…”

He was tempted to let her feel guilty. Pushing the hitch of pettiness aside, Jens ignored the headache building in his right temple and turned to his sister.

“I’ll get you some more tonight, don’t worry about it.”

Her thin arms wrapped around his waist. _She would love Alec._

*

The pharmacy was almost empty when Jens arrived just past seven. Even though it was a short run from the flat, he loathed leaving Christa alone at night.

 _Relax Jens,_ he pushed his hands into his pockets as he reached the counter, shoes squeaking loudly against the linoleum floor. He mentally checked and rechecked that all the doors and windows had been locked.

“The usual, Herr Fiedler?” Ruth smiled at him from behind the counter, all flourish in her old age.

“Yes please, ma’am’,” Jens replied, pulling a few notes from his wallet.

Ruth took them in a wrinkled hand, scribbling _Fiedler_ across her prescription pad. “Should get in early, Herr Fiedler,” she disappeared into the high shelves stocked with medicine, her voice loud and bodiless, “prices set to hike in a couple o’ weeks.”

Jens put his wallet back into pocket. His eyes strayed to the packet of Lucky Strikes Ruth kept tucked by the counter.

He looked away, feeling jittery.

The shuffling would get a little louder, then a little quieter every once in a while as Ruth worked on the prescription. The bell attached to the door rang a few times as customers came and went.

“Here you are…”

Ruth packed the little square box into his hand. She nodded as she turned the lady waiting behind him. “Say hello to little Christa for me, would you Love?”

His fingers had gone white around the medicine. “Thank you.”

Jens slipped from the pharmacy, wrought with a sudden urgency to be _away_.  The streets seemed to go on forever, and he weaved through them mindlessly, ignoring the heavy weight that suddenly settled on his chest.

*

The first time Jens saw Alec the next day, it was in the lecture.

But this morning, even his professor’s soothing voice wasn’t enough to calm the anxiety simmering between his ribs. Jens pressed his palms hard into the table, eyes unfocused as he remembered to _breathe._

Oh, it hadn’t been this bad in a while.

“And so, here’s a fun fact-” Jens barely remembered to smile when Alec glanced his way, “when the Soviets implemented-”

He resisted the urge to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes. He hadn’t slept more than two hours last night, restless beneath the covers of his bed, mind preoccupied with that terrible essay he’d barely started on, and the rising prices, and Professor Smiley and Alec _not saying it back._

 _You told him not to,_ Jens reminded himself. _You told him not to._ And for some reason, some childish part of himself still craved validation in the midst of all this uncertainty.

“Anyway, now you can all bugger off. Don’t leave your exam study to the last minute!”

Jens blinked. When had the lecture finished? He pushed the guilty feeling to the back of his mind, waiting as the other students filtered out of the hall before getting up.

“Fiedler,” Alec called from the front, “a moment please.”

Jens came to him with his arms full of textbooks, his smile fleeting.

Alec’s brows were furrowed. He had that concern look on his face, and Jens hated himself for putting it there. “Can I see you in my office?”

“Of course, Professor.”

They walked together quickly, Alec shooting him worried stares all the way, right up until the door to his office was locked behind them.

“What’s wrong?”

The older man gently pried the books from his arms and guided him into a chair. Jens let himself by led, suddenly exhausted.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. Alec pulled a chair in front of him and leant forward, a warm palm against Jens’ knee.

“What can I do?”

Jens shook his head, his own fingers resting atop Alec’s.

“I need a cigarette,” an embarrassed smile, “nothing. Sorry. it’s just one of those days.”

“I completely understand.” Jens knew he did. “Do you uh, do you want to come over tonight? I’ll make some chocolate mousse. You can put your feet up. De-stress.”

He sighed. “I have work.”

“Right,” Alec nodded to himself. “I’ll give you a lift then.”

Jens raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking at the corners. “You would drive to the library from your flat, just to drive to my flat, just to go back to your flat?”

“Yes.” It felt like he hadn’t laughed in ages. Alec’s fingers felt warm against his skin, tilting his chin up delicately. “But I’m driving to the library from here. I’ll drop you off at work and wait till you’re done.”

“Alec-”

“You don’t get to protest. I know it takes you an hour to get there from the university.”

“Fifty-two minutes.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You look exhausted. I also know Christa is going to be home early today.”

“I don’t need you to be my personal driver, Alec.”

“What if I just want to make my exhausted lover’s life a little easier for a day?”

“… you are wonderful.”

“I know.” He paused. “Are you ever going to tell me why you smoke so much?”

Jens looked surprised by the question. “Why, Mister Leamas, it adds to my charm.”

He shook his head. What a clever way to avoid a question. “I’m going to wean you off of those things, dear. Slowly but surely.”

How he loved that laugh. He’d get the answer someday, he knew.

*

The library looked more like a second-hand bookshop than anything.

Alec had driven past a few times, but he’d never taken the time to enter. It was a little labyrinth of narrow corridors and old, stiff carpet. The musty smell of books might have given a weaker man asthma.

He drew his newspaper open wider, peaking over the edge at Jens. Alec was being discrete. _He was._

But he couldn’t resist. The younger man looked so sweet dressed in a vest and tie, hauling thick books in his thin arms and pushing the break on the old trolley with the sole of his foot. He seemed to know where everything went by heart, and worked with tight efficiency, humming quietly to himself. Alec was glad the library was practically empty at this time. No one would notice he hadn’t turned a page in thirty minutes.

“Hmm _hmm_.” Almost no one. He glanced up. A withered face glared down at him. _Miss Crail,_ he recalled. “The library closes in _twenty_ minutes.”

Those hawkish eyes made him feel like a naughty schoolboy. He smiled awkwardly with a nod.

She turned away, and Alec went back to his newspaper. Time ticked by casually, and he noticed a young woman milling about with Jens. Every ten or so minutes she’d turn to face Alec as discretely as she could, and then she’d giggle, and whisper something to Jens, and Jens would smile and act unaware.

Soon enough, he was being ushered out Miss Crail, left to sneak around behind the library. It wasn’t long before Jens found him.

*

“Liz likes you.”

“Oh?” The smile in Alec’s voice was palpable. In the dark, he pulled Jens towards him by the hand. The boy sighed contently.

“Uh huh. She asked me if I knew the ruggedly handsome man who kept staring in my direction.”

Alec snorted. “I’m hardly rugged.”

“Whatever you say, Professor.” Jens rolled his eyes. “Liz is really sweet. She takes Christa home sometimes. You must’nt break her heart.”

He laughed, and they walked to the car in a comfortable silence.

As soon as they were sat inside, he turned to the younger man.

“I want to take you out,”

Alec’s hand slid up the hollow of his throat to cup a smooth jaw. Jens smiled into his palm, tilting his chin up to near the gap between their lips. “We do go out, Alec.”

Alec shook his head, his thumb gently stroking a sharp cheekbone. “You know what I mean,”

“Alec…”

His curled his hand possessively around a lovely, jutting hip fingering the space underneath the seatbelt. “I want to take you out. I want to hold your hand. I want to kiss you. I want people to _see_ …”

“You know we can’t. Even if you weren’t my professor – it’s not-”

He seemed to struggle with his words, and Alec leaned down to brush their lips together briefly. He hated how careful they had to be, and for a moment, Alec just breathed him in. “I know, of course I know. I just hate hiding you away like this.” Jens smiled playfully, but Alec continued, “Like – like you’re some dirty little secret.”

“Oh professor, I don’t mind being your dirty little secret.”

His laughter was delighted as they pulled away from the curb, through the winding city streets, and all the way up to Jens’ alley. Alec barely took notice of the deprecate building and the peeling paint. Up to the third floor.

“I’m sorry,” the boy interrupted his thoughts as they climbed the stairs. He glanced at Jens. He looked embarrassed.

“Sorry?” Alec raised an eyebrow. Jens blushed. “Sorry about what?”

A long sigh seemed to draw the young man’s shoulders down. He looked with nervous eyes around the narrow corridor. The building Jens lived in was about as different from his own as possible. In a developing part of town, all old metal and graffiti.

“Y’know,” the boy muttered. Their laughter simmered down awkwardly. “I know this place isn’t… much.” He stopped, thin hand curling around the bend of Alec’s elbow before they reached the end of the corridor. Jens seemed to struggle with his words. “It isn’t…marvellous. But it’s all I can afford with Christa’s- when she gets better, we can move. I’d like to. I know she’d like to. But I mean. We just-”

“Jens.”

“This is home. For now. I mean, sure it’s been home for a while. It’s small. Really, so much smaller than your place. That’s okay. I just don’t want you to – to be-”

“Jens.”

“I didn’t even really want to invite you over. I was so nervous about what you would think. Alec, Alec the fanciest thing I have in the flat is the sour cream, and I’m just-”

“ _Jens!_ ’

The boy stopped. Alec drew him close.

“Stop rambling.”

Jens nodded. “Okay. Okay. it’s just-”

“It’s _okay_ Jens. I don’t care what your flat looks like. Please don’t be nervous.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thank you for inviting me over. It means the world to me.”

Jens looked at him with wide eyes, nodding hastily. “Okay. Okay.” They began walking again. “Christa is going to adore you. I wanted to have you over for dinner, but since we’re doing this now– I haven’t prepared anything, but I can…”

The words caught in his throat. Alec raised an eyebrow.

“What’s wro-”

Jens was staring straight ahead with a cold expression. His face had gone white, and there was something devastating in his eyes that Alec had never seen before. He turned to see what the younger man was looking at, and there it was, the old door with the scratched brass door knob. Number thirty-seven.

And spray-painted roughly across the pale blue were angry slogans and – _Jesus Christ._

For the briefest moment, Alec couldn’t move.

Jens rushed ahead of him, face burning. He dragged his two fingers along the edges _SOW._ They came back red. The vandalism was still fresh.

“Jens-”

The boy turned, and he looked more embarrassed than anything. Alec felt sick.

“Sorry. It’s been a little while since…” he was scrambling in his pocket for his keys. The rushed jingle echoed through the empty hallway. Alec followed to stand right behind him, so he faced the wooden frame completely. The insults were ghastly, from _sow_ to _filth_ to –

His stomach turned. Something sour clawed its way up his throat and his vision blurred.

“Alec? _Alec_?”

He’d barely noticed Jens turned to face him, features awash with white concern. The light press of fingers against his jacket brought him back, and Alec had to take long, long breath through the anger threatening to burst his chest. He only took notice of his own curled fists when his nails bit too deeply into the skin of his palm.

“Who?”

The question was wrought with such vivid intensity. Jens pulled away. “Just some of the guys. Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll clean it up, it shouldn’t be…”

“ _Who_?”

Jens looked away from him, pushing the old door open with a whiny creak.

“Just come inside, would you?”

Alec uncurled his fists and followed the younger man inside. Jens waited and closed the door gently behind him.

“Jens.” He might have said it once or twice, but Jens just shot him a look and made his way through the narrow corridor. He let his back fall against the door for a short moment before he made his way into the apartment.

The corridor led to the lounge. It took him away from the vandalism: the little coffee table nursing a hastily-scotch taped wireless, and an old-fashioned couch. A large bookshelf was pushed up against one of the walls by the window, and he could almost make out all the titles in French and German and _Russian_?

“You know Russian?” He called softly into the flat. Jens had disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. Alec was careful to step over the rug, his heels pressing against the floorboards. He leaned through the doorframe to the kitchen, catching site of a little fridge with about a hundred colourful notes taped to it, and a clean silver sink.  A large window and lace drapes brought the spotless kitchen together. He couldn’t help his smile.

Jens had bent over to draw a bucket from one of the cupboards. He began to fill it with water and soap.

“I’m about as fluent as a deaf toddler at this stage.”

Alec snorted, pulling the heavy bucket from the younger man’s hands. “Out of the dozen times this is happened, you’ve not reported it once, have you?”

Jens paused. He twisted his body and moved past Alec with sponges and towels.  

“Can you grab the bleach please? It’s by the washer.”

Alec’s feet were quiet against the tiles. He snuck through to an adjoining laundry and tucked the blue bottle under his arm.

He didn’t get to look around for much longer. Jens was on his knees outside.

Alec placed the bucket down carefully, kneeling beside the younger man. “Are you going to tell me who’s been doing this?”

Jens rolled up his sleeves, dunking a sponge into the water. “It’s no big deal, Alec.”

“How long has this been going on?” Red paint cried down the door.

“Good thing it hasn’t dried yet…”

“Has it been getting worse?”

“Is this twenty questions?”

The older man rolled his eyes, grabbing his own sponge. Jens’ eyes flitted to him quickly.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t need to be cleaning up my mess.”

Alec ignored him. The edges of _SOW_ began to bleed. Underneath, the paint was faded where Jens had scrubbed it clean with bleach.

“How often?”

There was no pause in Jens’ movements. Practiced. Scrub the paint, dry with a fraying spotted towel, spill over a thin coat of bleach if there were stains. The strong chemical stung his eyes, and he battled with the urge to cover his nose. Jens didn’t seem affected.

“It’s been quiet recently,” he finally answered. “But every once in while I come home to find it like this…” Alec patted part of the door dry as Jens went on. “I usually get it off by the time Christa comes home in an hour or so.”

What a lovely non-answer, Alec thought.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmm? What for?”

They fell into a methodical pattern. Minutes might have gone by. “This. This repulsive behaviour.” His voice became noticeably hard. “This judgement of dim-witted bastards who-”

“Alec.” Thin fingers were suddenly at his shoulder. “I’ve been called worse things than a pig by my little sister.”

Of course he’d try to laugh it off, Alec thought. “This isn’t okay, Jens.”

“… I have reported it, you know.”

Alec slowed. “And?”

“And nothing.” Jens leaned back on his hunches. He stared plainly at the door for a long second. “The police said they’d look into it both times. There was no follow up afterwards, no inquiries. When I asked about it, they told me _it happens._ ”

“It happens?”

“It happens.” Jens went back to scrubbing.

 _It happens,_ and it left a bitter taste in Alec’s mouth.

*

An hour later, there was a steaming cup of tea in his hands. It felt incredibly fragile in his heavy grasp, and incredibly out of place: gold-rimmed, pleasantly floral. The colours were subtle. It might have been something his grandmother owned.

Alec glanced up to Jens’ grinning face. His features had gotten some of their colour back.

“Your mother’s?”

His partner nodded. His own tea cup rested on the coffee table, feet folded beneath him on the couch. Alec took a sip of the earl grey, relishing in the explosion of bergamot on his taste buds.

“They were a wedding gift from my grandparents.”

Alec leaned forward, placing the cup beside Jens’ on the table. He stretched an arm around the boy and drew him in, so his cheek rested against Alec’s shoulder. Jens sighed, his fingers idly playing with a loose button on the older man’s shirt.

He took a second to breathe it all in, eyes drifting to a wooden frame by the wireless. Two bright faces smiled at him, a blonde man and a dark-haired woman. The resemblance between Jens and his mother was uncanny. The same straight nose, the same hollow cheekbones. They shared the same willowy beauty.

Jens’ father, on the other hand, reminded Alec of his own. The man had a serious face, and strong German features.

The boy was growing heavier against him. Alec drew his eyes from the photograph.

“Are you going to tell me who vandalised your door?”

A noise of non-committal. “We’re still talking about this?”

“It was literally ten minutes ago, Jens.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Alec rolled his eyes.

“They’re in one of my classes, aren’t they?”

Silence.

“Jens,” he tried again, “I won’t be biased against a student, you should know that by now. This won’t get in the way of my professional integrity.”

The boy slid from beneath his arm, turning to face him completely. “I know, Alec. But it doesn’t mean I need to put you in that position either. It’s not as if you don’t have enough to deal with. You hardly need my trivial mess.”

“Trivial?” His voice was rough. The abuse they’d spent an hour scrubbing off the door flashed behind the dark of his eyelids. “There is absolutely _nothing_ trivial about – for Christ’s sake Jens, they drew _swastikas._ ”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

The dry response brought him back. Alec knew he had to curb his anger, and twisted to weave his fingers through Jens’.

“I’m just scared. What they’ve done is a _serious_ crime. What if it escalates? What if they-”

“They won’t.”

“What if they _do_?”

“Alec, they _won’t,_ okay?” Jens pulled away. “They won’t because this has been going on for ages. It’s harmless. They wouldn’t do anything serious because of the risk and the controversy. I’m dealing with this. Just trust me okay?”

The assurance doesn’t do anything to uncurl the ball of unease that had settled on his chest. Still. “Okay. Okay, but if-”

“Smoking suppresses appetite.”

“…What?”

Jens had gone red. “You’ve been wanting to know why I smoke so much. It makes you less hungry.”

“You-” all the words came to his mouth at once and none tumbled out for a long moment. “ _What_? Stop trying to distract me!”

“You wanted to know!”

Alec huffed a sigh of disbelief.

“You’re not very tactful, are you?”

A laugh. “You’ve been bugging me about it for ages. Thought I’d let you know.”

He leaned back, bringing it all together, trying to process what the younger man had said. “You smoked so you wouldn’t go hungry?”

“I-” Jens hesitated. The look on his face told Alec he hadn’t thought his confession through very far. “We didn’t have a lot of food, so I’d always have a pack of whatever cheap unfiltered stuff my father could get his hands on.”

The simple explanation twisted his insides. “Jens, that kind of effect – that takes years and years to develop. Were you born with a square in your mouth?”

“I never said it _worked._ ”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jens.” It slipped out before he could help himself, and the look on the boy’s face was priceless. Alec thought he might be sent to a designated time out zone.

“If you use that sort of language around my little sister, _Professor-_ ”

He ate up the words with a kiss. “I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise.” A pause. “This conversation was about as on course as a train wreck.”

Jens’ smile was effortless.


End file.
